**Intro**
[DJ Evil E]
Yo, this is DJ Evil E, and you just checked out "Bust A Move" from the Spin Masters.
[Radio DJ]
Yo Ice, why don't you tell'em what's coming up next?
[Ice-T]
Yo, you got to kick some of that Maestro Fresh Wes. You know that one, Let Your Backbone Slide? Yo, homebody is opening for us at the show, man. Yo, homeboy's dope, man. Check THIS out
[Maestro Fresh Wes]
I'm a ruler, that's how I reign
I do to rap what the Mona Lisa does to the frame
Written and ridden, my rhymes are like rodeo
I ain't kiddin', they jock my portfolio
Played it wise, hit the studio
Rock international, now they call me Julio
MCs have died, because I have killed them
Some older than me but yet children
Some veterans knew the feel
Because rap is not a joke, this game's for real
Sucker boys cuss me, females rush me
When I'm off the set, my homeboys they touch me
Wes, you ate 'em up like a feast
No need to use an Uzi when the mic's my piece
CHORUS
"Bang Nine"
"Murderin' MC's"
"Bang Nine"
"Murderin' MC's"
"Bang Nine"
"Murderin' MC's"
** Scratching by DJ LTD **
REPEAT
[Maestro Fresh Wes]
Some use a Uzi, some a machete
You wanna test Fresh Wes, well I'm ready
The mind is a Magnum, the rhyme is a bullet
The mic that's a trigger *BANG* and I'll pull it
Too late for prayer, D is a slayer
Wes rocks the mic like a hoop to Isiah
The player, the Piston, MC's are risking
You'll get decked like Clay decked Liston
*BANG*
Where did the punch come from?
Was it before, or after the drum
LTD will be the referee
Saying 'punk tell me how many fingers you see'
The M-I-C is my P-I-E-C-E
The Maestro needs no Uzi
Like a beast I feast when my rhyme's released
Not gonna cease *BANG* cause the mic is my piece
A bag of LSD and my DJ does needles
Lyrical dope my group ain't feeble
Zero degrees centigrade, thirty-two farenheit
Cold getting paid and you're a parasite
Paraphrase, no parallel, you're paralyzed
You're paranoid, you play my record, you plagiarize
A paragon, the paramount protagonist
You're the paranormal paragraphing analyst
Move, you might get mobbed
There's a method to my madness, don't mock my monologue
I'm like a beast when my rhyme's released, not gonna cease
*BANG* cause my mic's my piece
CHORUS
[Maestro Fresh Wes]
I walk around town looking at these clowns
Thinking about my cold crisp bills of brown
I stress the color brown, this is what I mean
I'm not American, my hundred dollar bill ain't green
I'm from North of the border, keep it in order
Beats like a freak from the Latin Quarter
Though I'm down with the T-O scene
I don't hang with no polo team
No charade or parade, I'm here to envade
X-rate, excel, escalate this escapade
I'll pass your girl like she don't exist
Exercise the diss while she Exorcist
Extreme 360, necks will be snapped
She rode my rhythm, received whiplash
Executed, extracted, she was attracted
To the Maestro, UHH, she's distracted
You're distressed, she's hyperactive
You're jocking and still jack? You must be wack kid
That's why I laugh, you felt my wrath
The aftermath, the bloodbath of paragraph
Every title you held has been stripped
Lost love, torn ego, with a busted-up lip
When I start firing I never cease
I get hyped, when *BANG* the mic's my piece
CHORUS
[Maestro Fresh Wes]
Yeah
Like Franco Columbo, I'm jumbo, large
How could one so low try to obtain my status
Don't they know how long I've been at this?
Call me a new jack, that's a diss
New jacks don't rock like this
That's absurb to me, don't say a word to me
I'm from T-O that's why you dunna heard of me
Yesterday, but now you're listening
Cause I'm exploding like nitroglycerine
If I was from New York
I know you would have rocked to my rhythmn, five years ago
I had to try a little harder than average
Just to get a break, but now I'm doing damage
Think that you're a star? Sorry Charlie
Got beef? Talk to Farley
Cause what I manifest is a masterpiece
Dope rhymes are released when the mic's my piece
Some carry knives some carry guns
Two thousand brothers in the jam all trying to be number one
Looking serious, flexing, posing
You rub shoulders, step on toes and it's *BANG* over
You might get jacked
You must be wishin' this is fiction, but these are facts I mean
Too many want to brawl, I think I heard it all
Hip hop today is a live game of Murderball
Some want to party, but some are too cool
I fought against one of the brothers from my high school
Real sad funeral, ask any pupil
I speak now before this quadruple
Some minds are so shallow, roads are so narrow
Follow my flow before you flunk like Daryl
The mic is my weapon, with it I ain't 'fessing
No half stepping, I'm progressing
Even when I die these lyrics will last
So roll over Beethoveen, here's a b-boy blast
Show pain another day, I leave you in awe
This arrangement bust an orchestra
I'm the Maestro, my symphony can't cease
Too damn hype! *BANG* when the mic's my piece
CHORUS
