E.N.Y. House - Masta Killa

Yeah, it’s like salutation, greeting

Ladies and gents, good evening

I’m the speaker for the evening

Get up out your chair, throw your hands in the air

Have drinks on me, hit it slow, though

Each dose, well potent

Some particle, compound into one article

The headline read, shall I proceed?

Hell yeah, well let the turntable spin

Like the chrome on the G wag' Benz, let’s begin

Aiyo, spit that shit, that make niggas wanna lick they Glock

When I grab the microphone, I can’t stop

To drop that shit that make you get «ahh»

Down on your face, with your the gun to your --

Ladies in the club, they frontin' like --

My brothers in the club, we try’nna get «ahh»

Look, another smash hit, my niggas from the boulevard

East New York squad, in the yard gettin' ripped

'Least twenty five a clip, a hundred men stomp in ya face

The wolves barkin', careful, you might get trampled

Caught flashin', wrap him in the masking tape

Jimmy Basking, murder was the case when the crowd break fool

Iron Mic Duel held down by the poolside

Along came a spider, spun spools in a cypher

Screamin' on your mic, leads spray from the sawed off pipe

Stenographer type, the ghetto hype slang, flow roll

Like water off the brim when it rain

Iron Maiden, checkmating, no escaping, we takin' it

Aiyo, spit that shit, that make niggas wanna lick they Glock

When I grab the microphone, I can’t stop

To drop that shit that make you get «ahh»

Down on your face, with your the gun to your --

Ladies in the club, they frontin' like --

My brothers in the club, we try’nna get «ahh»

So terrifyin', so electrifyin'

Ya’ll niggas can’t deny, it’s so death defyin'

Also, unique, it’s so much heat

On the turntable wax, when I speak on the beat

One-two, throw it up, like you came to give it up

Drop something in the collection cup, for the cause

Of the sixteen bars, fast cars and jewelry

Fine silk, Cantonese wine make the rhyme shine

Bright on the seven continent

Take it to the fullest extent

Go anywhere, and live

Aiyo, spit that shit, that make niggas wanna lick they Glock

When I grab the microphone, I can’t stop

To drop that shit that make you get «ahh»

Down on your face, with your the gun to your --

Yeah, P. Diddy, I know you dancin'

Crowd still movin', ladies groovin'

When the God show and provin'

Shit went something like that, I can’t remember how that go.

Knawhatimean?