1, 2 Pass It Songtext
von D&D All-Stars

Oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why
Why does a DJ test and he end up die
I know, I know, I know, I can′t explain
Pack up a shot just blow dem brain
Who are the man with the gun inna his hand
Step up on the scene like Captain Caveman
You want the music everybody scream louder
Lick bare shot and smell the gun powder

On and on and on and on...
Yo, freestyle flow to make the crowd just go
The old to the new, the new to the old
{Beatbox} The rhythm be working up on me
The crowd be jumping up for me, the people are waiting up on me
To enter the stage in the rage, Mad Lion's out the cage
Now it′s time for me to engage, uhh
And bear witness, the lyrical fitness
The jumps, the dives, the leaps, are you getting this?
Next to step up, microphone check up

KRS-ONE, so come and get your wreck up


Our mother who art in Heaven number seven is the weapon
With the Goddess I'm stepping lyrically I'm never begging, you know
I′m the difference between indo and oregano
Imagine how fresh I am now, I made these lyrics up a year ago
So report back it was fat, fit, all that, quick, pump that, drop the S-hit
I′m lyrically physically fit
Catch me bugging on the mic, every day and every night
Every hour, every second, man it don't stop, get it, get it
Yes, admit it when I′m way up in it
You can't hide cause my radar′s going bibip bibip bibip
I reside in the watchtower watching MCs land
Your career will be as short as my part in "Who's The Man"
Goddamn I′m the pinnacle, yes the metaphysical
Come to you as the rap god of lyrical syllables
Fall to your knees, bring fruit, ask advice
Put your rhymes on the altar, burn them as a sacrifice
The aroma reaches up to my nostril
I get hostile, your lyrics are stiff like David Koppel
Yes Premier rocks the track on time
KRS-ONE with off of the top of the head rhyme
Yeah Fat Joe, you know you got a flow
My man Doug E Fresh down with the one called KRS

We got the mad MCs up in the D&D
I'm out, G

Yeah!
Motherfuckers know who's the best
If it ain′t Fat Joe then it must be Lord Finesse
Think not, then show what you got
But don′t grab this mic, the shit's too hot
I′m the born killer, nigga from the Bronx
Rappers talk shit but there's really no comp
Bring it on if you think you can hang

And if not then let me do my thing
Yeah, so Smif-n-Wessun if you′re down with me
Represent one time on the M-I-C


Mr. Ripper, get your gear and prepare for war
Mr. Vickster, you ain't gotta tell me no more
Cause what I see, on the daily
Deals with reality, so come follow we on this journey
Through Brooklyn where the crooks dwell in the projects overlooking
In the form of the streets, you know them well
Bet your ass this grass is greener
Than a 20 sack of sensimila brought straight from Medina

You know the vibe when Smif-n-Wessun twist up the Thai
Peace to my people in the Ville, peace to my heads in the Stuy
We do or die, we test your stamina
So any challenger we pass the motherfucker off to the Damaja

Super scientifical madness
My status is the baddest every time I bless the apparatus
You wish to take me out, so you study
Meanwhile my clothes, mics and foes are left bloody
Cruddy, filthy from the ground on up
When I plan my attack I doubt that you′re ready
Rain on competition like razor sharp confetti
Kung Fu techniques from the perverted monastery
Sifu Ru manipulates the microphone
And rhymes like bullets penetrate your zone
See we bring more drama than Kevin Costner
No I'm not Jamaican but yes I'm a Rasta