Don't front
 So many claim the fame  but never see the day
 When lyrically they could even run  in the Triple A's
 This here's the major leagues  where big hits are guaranteed
 The Ken Griffey turbo 850 professional MC
 One more time that cat Defari
 With a sting operation so blatant we call it franchise
 Man sign  independent on some enterprise
 It's time to shoot straight, innovate, and make the world realize
 That mics get ripped, and spots get blown
 I strive to be a Golden State all-time great, like J-Ro
 I gets burned when the Technics turn on mix shows and mix tapes
 That you hear when a car turns left on the street
 You know that shit that make you bounce
 'Nuf respect to Rasco and Evidence
 Yo hold it down on the mound
 I'm not like Hideo, don't got it Nomo
 I'm more like Randy Johnson, guaranteed heat for sure

 Yo this that where the big hits are guaranteed
 This ain't no minor league affair this here the major leagues
 You in the batter's box ready for combat (what?)
 But when you step up to the plate better bring it fat

 
 I throw spitballs and sliders, and hit batters with attitude
 The signal's in, and my catcher's 'Fari Herut
 I got to risin on the mound, talkin at pen-point
 Retire the side, put on a jacket, ice my joints
 And body parts, world-wide, Evidence is known
 Have you fallin out the batter's box when curves are thrown
 Precise angles, I disect the strategy, no cost
 And just 'cause I choose to wander don't mean I'm lost
 I got the button-up jersrey, Dilated written in cursive
 I spill my heart to wax and put the in the open
 Three men against nine players, yo, that shit's unheard of
 Plus my eyes are open in takin' folks
 One cat got on base but he didn't learn his lesson
 I faked to first and picked him off at second
 Patience is a virtue, yo he couldn't understand
 That cat's out, time waits for no man
 Bust it

 Don't front
 This where the big hits are guaranteed
 This ain't no minor league affair this here the major leagues
 You in the batter's box ready for combat (what?)
 But when you step up to the plate

 
 It be the large caliber rhyme
 Ask yourself why try
 Microphone slash Rasco Defari
 Evidence, rhymes that set the precedence
 Straight out the box, MCs to bobby sox
 Major league, set to intrigue you small fee
 Nothin' to the game, we doused them small flames
 Take names
 Head for the fence, we track prints
 Track down the scent, then fold your whole tent
 Stay bent
 The illest on rhymes at all times
 Call your bullpen, Rasco just pulled into the lot
 Be strikin em out with one shot
 While your pitch be hittin the plate at one spot
 Down the pipe
 The major lieutenant that earn stripes
 Bet strap in, cadet to captain
 Stand up, better yet, put them hands up
 And watch the triple threat come fuck them plans up
 Smack niggas, with lyrical gems that sayin hymns
 Niggas still rappin 'bout clothes and car rims
 Man debted
 But dishin that corn, you get spreaded
 We runnin on supreme, you runnin on unleaded
 Couldn't match, you out the line-up, you been scratched
 Sittin on the bench, not feelin you one pinch, in the trench
 We loadin the guns to stack funds
 Went from stackin ones to stackin them one-huns
 Scored runs
 The hotter the bat, the more fat
 It's Dilated, Ras, 'Fari, we bust back
 Like that, like that, like that, like that
 Like that y'all, like that, check it

 Yo this that where the big hits are guaranteed
 This ain't no minor league affair this here the major leagues
 You in the batter's box ready for combat (what?)
 But when you step up to the plate better bring it fat
 Don't front