Yo last call, last call, last call for alcohol!
 At two, you're through!
 {J-Ro} Ay bartendah! Bartender!
 {Bart} Yo whassup man?
 {J-Ro} Ay man, man let me get a... rummmmm an coke
 {Bart} Yo man don't you think you had a little bit too much to drink?
 {J-Ro} Ay just let me get one more man
 {Bart} Yo man I'm lookin out for you man, it's your life
 {J-Ro} Man I'll hop over this motherfucker and get my OWN damn drink
 Hey niggy, what time it is...
 Verse One: Tash
 It's time to roll my sleeves, fuck a few MC's up
 Another rough cut, from the crew that won't ease up
 The Alkaholik click, AKA the forty downers
 Flips rhymes like Calvin flips fries and quarter pounders
 I never drink and drive cuz I might spill my drink
 I failed the breathalizer so they took me to the clink
 Niggaz earlin in the sink cause they can't fade the Cisco
 I'm from the old school but I never rocked a disco
 Loops from the group that, likes to smack the bitches
 Tha Liks is hittin hookers like a gangsta hittin switches
 Front, to the back, to the side, to the side
 And make you dance with these bitches but, no electric slidin
 And I'm about to flip, but first I'm bout to sip
 Off the forty ounce of brew that I was savin for the trip
 Back to the lab cuz all I do is bang cuts
 That's why I hang around my group like a dick hang with nuts
 Verse Two: J-Ro
 I push one two's when niggaz step on my shoes
 Oh you haven't heard the news I've been giving fools blues
 Manhandling chumps that step up, just to keep my rep up
 I push my fist through your grill
 I never became a gangsta, thanks ta, my skill
 on the nine inches of steel
 You ask me what the K's for, they don't mean nothin
 ["K's for the way my dee-jay's kuttin" -- Schoolly D, P.S.K.]
 Chorus: Tash, group
 Last call y'all {call y'all}
 Call y'all {call y'all}
 {Last call, for alcohol}
 Last call y'all {call y'all}
 Call y'all {call y'all}
 {Last call, for alcohol}
 [J-Ro] Yeah... word
 [Tash] Alkaholik style nigga
 Verse Three: E-Swift
 Uh, I be one of dem niggaz known to drink a gang of brewskis
 Float like the wind, so all y'all can call me cool breeze
 Cooler than my man Morris Day in the winter
 The dope rhyme inventor, rockin shows at the center
 So pass the mic on the, down low
 Now go grab a forty from the liquor sto'
 And you don't stop {don't stop} and you don't quit {don't quit}
 Unless you're in the studio making wack shit
 Chorus
 [J-Ro] Yeah... that nigga Squid is in the house
 Verse Four: J-Ro
 I got a forty-four Mag with the clip (with a clip)
 So MC's watch your lip, cause I'm shootin from the hip ahh
 I rip like Oprah, in tight jeans do
 and splits a needle wrap a pair man because them shits is on the fritz
 It's crazy, a few MC's amaze me
 With this Alkie style of rock, Mr. Spock couldn't phase me
 Rhymin pays me, but I do it anyway
 Many say, AY, when it comes to rhymes you got plenty J
 I'm so cool I drink forty ounces of freon
 You never see me on the stage with a peon
 When we on the microphone it's like Jordan all alone
 We slam, competition, scram damn
 Can we get along? Nope.
 Switchblade to the throat to MC's who ain't dope
 Call me J-Ro the clepto, cuz I'm stealing to the jaw
 Of these half-baked rappers, trying to get raw
 Verse Five: Tash
 Soul in my strut, muscle in my hustle
 It's just a little something for them punks that wanna bust they
 little
 Def Jam Comedy, raps that make me crack up
 You better call the one-time and tell em send a backup
 Cuz I'm about to act up, I couldn't kick a verse
 J-Ro say he Got It Bad, so that mean I got it worse
 Check uno dos, crack a forty, make a toast
 Let me rip the instrumental and impress the West coast
 Chorus
 [J-Ro] Uhh... damn it feels like my bones is rattling
 Uhh ohhh shit! I'm outta here...
 Ohh yeah, tell the sons of Jones to kiss my ass