Bits & Pieces - Rasco

What’s the major malfunction?

Got the whole rhyme under construction

Built brick to brick, my style of rhyme sick

Ras' be the quick to smack yo' ass fast

Teamed with Evidence, he’s here, my man is classic material

Solefather the Grand Imperial

You and your crew need the milk plus the cereal

Break out the bowl, the shit’s outta control

Brothas on patrol, they checkin' what ya stole

The whole, world is, looking amazed

Smack you so hard you’ll be laid up for days

Taking X-rays for broken backs and bones

While I be on the phone and counting stacks at home

Spittin' rhymes chrome, make 'em shine and glisten

Coming up missing, better give mines a listen

Brothas still wishin', better call the cops

And brothas still waitin' for the joint to drop

Well, here it is, right in your face, the first taste

Swingin' for the fence, you chillin' at first base

The only nigga up in the place with rhyme flows

To attract chickenheads and pullin' these fine hoes

Whenever wind blows, I’m bringin' it top notch

And more hard to swallow than marriage in hot scotch

Show me what you got, you claimin' that shit’s hot

Well, I claim it’s not, I came to knock snot out your nose

Knock you back 36 rows

The first-year rookie that be killin' the pros

Bring the contract, explode on contact

You chillin' on the bench like Nevin and Koncak

Hand to hand, combat’s what it is

And brothas still screamin', «Ras', kick it for the kids»

Well, that’s cool, spent 12 years in school

Got no diploma, now you chillin' by the pool

That even yours, I seen it all before

Sold a million records, now selling door to door

Polyester suits and tryna grab recruits

What happened to them days of women and mad loot?

All up in flames, I’m tired of playing these games

Three thousand niggas that all sound the same

Blow a nigga’s frame and send him the snapshots

Play a little hockey then hit 'em with slapshots

The one time trigger effect is now done

The last man standing and hittin' the stretch run

Spittin' bubble gum, I’m spittin' the hard shit

The infrared scope and hittin' the target

Bulls-eye, give me my points for phat joints

At 33 a game, I put 'em all to shame

Who you gonna blame when your shit don’t sell?

I play the postman for stackin' the most mail

Hot up on they trail, I track 'em like white folks

Grab 'em by they neck and spin 'em like bike spokes

No need to smoke, I need my brain cells

The brotha that’s been know for slicing the frame well

Now what

(«Rasco»)