[Infamous Mr. Savage]
At various degrees I strike mics and seize
Numerous amounts of M.C.'s and place 'em on they knees
And freeze, my temperature is Sub-Zero
When I react, and hunt down the Last Action Hero
Who couldn't break a tornado, cuz I hold his heart
In the palm of my hands like I was Kano
Style's is fatal, arrow tips pierce your naval
You unable, to handle my steeze, no one can save you
But it would pay to, pray to, your Jehovah
Cuz when I approach with my platoon, it's all over
The mad cobra, the renegade ill spitting the poisonous lyrics
Blowing up spots like twin grenades
I remain still, collected and calm, in Mortal Kombat
Absorb blows, countereact and go beyond that
And crush competitors, and any competition comping any compound flows
That ignite to third degrees, my enemies, better recognize the trauma
The Bronx Bomber suited in armor, ill with the toma
You gets no wins in the Woods, soldier
Cuz youse a pack of Newports, and I'm a dirty chain smoker
[Storm Da Ghetto Mutant]
Coming on the scene blasting
The thought assassin, with my mind unfastened
The inner beast, unleashed, attacking
Your world, get ya ass beat by a girl
Shattering the myth, wielding the gift
Melting down corruptable flesh with murderous breath
The Black Sonya, p/k/a Angel of Death
Going into battle, armed wit wisdom of self
A bonified rugged female M.C., trained in the Soul Kid infiltry
My specialty, verbal weaponry
Yo, any ya'll bitches wanna challenge me
I'm earning salaries, so you best be packing calories
I got my weight up in the heavyweight division
So called gangsta the chicken heads, lackin vision turned pigeon
Behold the Storm, an ancient prophecy
Of what a spirit transit of rugged matter should be
[Blakspik]
I be that rugged undercover, who'll smother
And smoke your crew up, and you up, and slide inside your baby's mother
Drop science like Einstein cuz my brain is programmed
To spark, mics up in the dark
So step out my way, cuz I'mma flow like water
I got my nina cocked for the New World Order
You profane with no name, you driving on my lane
I finally peeped ya style out, son, you got no game
The Bronx Bomber, Blakspik slash comma
The spear chucker that'll three-piece your face, nucca
Terminate like Schwarzenegger, but I'm a darker figure
So draw your guns, here I come
I don't fake jacks, I keep it real, all the time
Reneg all your cards, and your soul will be mine
Flex on my klik, and you're wasting your time
Reach for yours, I reach for mine
My style is Mortal Kombat, son, You Don't Know Me
You better Cop-N-Go and play that back wall slowly
I'm rolling with two goodfellas, cuz it's Desperate Times
Desperate measures, then Savage release the pressure
My girl Storm, she Masters the Game, tight
My crew is wicked on the flow, and we Spark Da Mic
[G-Clef Da Mad Komposa]
Mortal Kombat, I'm taking niggas to the Outworld
You'll never get back, your ass froze like a pack
Never wack, feel the blast from Sub-Zero
I'll destroy your ass then go to work on your heroes
Many M.C.'s in the past tried to test
I ate up most then shit out the rest
G to the Clef, AKA cause of death
I cut you into fourteen pieces like seth
The stage is dark and eery like the moon
It's armageddon now and apocalypse is soon
Your end is near, as the final days approach
Your like the egg to be poached you get smoked like a roach
Ya skills are kinda ill, but still pure junk
Ya gift is so swift but your flow lacks the funk
High tech rappers got to take a back seat
When my flow sends out more funk than skunk's feet
Sit the fuck back down it ain't your turn
I'll make you poem collapse like Rome, crash and burn
Ashes to ashes, soot to soot
Styles go up ya ass with my muthafucking foot
Talk crap behind my back, yo, that's dead
Bring it to my face so I can bring it to your head
Hard rock can shock ya knot without a Glock
No escape kid (Goodfella: Why?) Spot you like a chicken pock
How you gonna be an M.C. with no timing
It's a mystery, like why Showbiz stopped rhyming
Verbal shots, your brain stained like glass
The only things coming out yo mouth is spit and gas
So called new styles, I'm not with it
Niggas so froggy, they should quit rapping and ribbit
This is the flow you couldn't handle
Cuz like a fed up Yankee fan, I'll dis-Mantle
The bridge burner, cement shoe salesman
Cuz when I spark da mic, yo it's like anthenum and
So pledge allegience to the Soul Kid Klik
I got Infamous, Goodfellas with more Storms than a Blakspik
Have your ass playing all types of notes and tones
Make you say "damn, that nigga G-Clef wrote some poems"
From Rome To Mecca the Clef can't be fucked with
Sunset to Vine Gun Hill to Sutphin --
Boulevard, you know it ain't hard to see it
You should never try to fuck with a Soul Kid M.C
