[Speaking]
It's 2005
I'm 'bout to blow some heads off, man
I got so much sh*t 'bout to hit these dudes, man
Feast (?) classic, Juju Mob classic, y'know I mean?
My team is comin', Good Hands
[Verse 1]
Yo, I give it to you straight, never speak fakely
Sharif T Lacey, they say he's crazy
I'm only Lost Cauze when I got the .380
This is my costume, no moniker to make you eat daisies
None needed, son weeded
For some reason, on the mic I become some demon
Other emcees eat they lungs even
You think not? Come see 'em
From the stage you will run fleein'
I need more cowbell, throw in your towels
You make the crowd swell with bottles
Thrown at you, I'm the grave robber, throne snatcher
Don't matter, I attack like throat cancer
You can't rap, but you's a dope dancer
A hype man, go adjust my mic stand
I roll with ???, who love to make your life stop
You've been dismissed, go home and get your shine box
[Hook]
[Echo] It's the Cauze, it's the Cauze...
[Scratch: KRS-One] Emcees act like they don't know
[Scratch: 50 Cent] I'm the underground king, and I ain't been crowned
[Scratch: Styles P] Motherf*ckers hit your knees and just pray to the Lord
[Verse 2]
No pimp cup, no gators (?)
No trucker hat, no blazer
I'm from the city that spawned Joe Frasier
Bernard Hopkins, stay the f*ck out of my zone, haters
Now I'm no Messiah, I'm no savior
But when the mic's in my clutch there's no greater
It's like a vato loco with no razor
A black man's Kool Aid with no flavor
ESPN with no Raiders
Or the Lost Cauze out for sale with no takers
That movie +Tron+ with no lasers
An episode of +Oz+ with no rapers
The X Games with no skaters
You get the gist; my only exercise is sit and twist
I'm just as quick as Michael Vick
Cuz I'm getting' blitzed like a three-four defense
Won't be tackled in the Three Four Precinct
[Hook]
[Verse 3]
I'm the omen in rhyme form
You soft as nylon
I spit hot fire like Dilawn, Dilawn, Dilawn
Mind gone from buds 's big as pine cones
The Lost Cauze is a motherf*cking cyclone
Get caught in my path, and I divide homes
You don't want to die, homes
I talk with my nine chrome
He's highly upset
Rush the stage with pure rage if you deny me a set
I ain't playin', dog
This is beast music, this is Reef music
Treat your face like bongos, this the beat movement
Daddy-yo the beat bruiser, leave your teeth looser
You'll be foolish to not cop that +Feast+, stupid
Cuz this a banger-banger, c*ck the thing and bang ya
Danger, danger, one remains in the chamber
Hot wire hanger, bash your face in
Now go f*ck yourself like masturbation
The father of this bast*rd nation
I'm hard like chemistry and math equations
Leave your face full of holes like the mask of Jason
I'm past the waitin', getting at these bast*rds hatin'
I'm sicker than a faggot Hatian filling his veins with H hits
My gun plastic like some fake tits (n*gga!)
I don't make hits, I just crap classics that make you want to break sh*t
You fake b*tch!
Bleh! Bleh! Bleh! Bleh! Bleh!
[Talking]
White Boy 1: Everybody's always talking about the legends, they talking
About Biggie and Pac (White Boy 2: Yeah, f*ck those two) and Pun and Big L
No one's talking about the real legends (WB2: Hell yeah)
The guys on top right now (WB2: Hell yeah)
I'm talking about the Sages (WB2: Sage? Sage is down with the Klan!)
The Aesops, my man Combustion Justin right here, are you kidding me?
(WB3: Old school rap is doo doo, dude, it's garbage)
He's the next big thing, listen to him
WB3: I need, like, beats that don't even sound like beats
WB1: Yeah, exactly, they should be like "ERr Err err err"
WB3: Who wants to dance anymore anyways?
WB2: It's the blacks
WB3: Yo, yo, rip that sh*t Combustion
Combustion: [Rapping]
Yo, yo, yo, yo
My rhyme style you can't even measure
Cuz I flow like Helium (WB2: Mmm) at 40 times atmospheric pressure (WB2:
Here he goes)
I'm super fluid nice, can't rap but I can almost write (WB2: Uh ha)
Can't fight but I can almost bite
Hate Bush cuz he's stealing my rights
Actually I just like to gripe (WB2: West Hartford, what!) because my skin is
White
I hate my dad, see, cuz he don't like
Paying for me to sit on my ass and smoke this pipe (WB2: Go Justin)
That's what I do because I'm so bored
Got this super silver haze weed that you can't afford (WB2: Connecticut!)
And I'm crazy fly like the Wright Brothers
Nerd rapper of the yo, yo, yo man like Tom and di*k Smothers
Might be Shabba Ranks ugly, but I'm "Mister Lover Lover"
[Black A&R]
Man, that sh*t is corny, man. Ok?
Let me tell you somethin'
My artist Corleone Capone from Big Dog Entertainment (Barks)
He will eat yo' sh*t...
Ay, Corleone, tells these n*ggas how the street, hood, y'know'm sayin'
Rich, big time, killa crack n*ggas do it
Corleone: Yo, yo this young Corleone Capone the enforcer AKA Real Clinton
Y'feel what I'm sayin'?
[Rapping] Yo, I cop the coke, pop the toast
Keep a bottle of Cris to pop and toast
Cook the crack, cut the crack, I sell the crack
I love the crack! Did I mention I got crack, n*gga?
Keep a gat that'll put it in your back, n*gga
Four shots you'll be layin' out flat, n*gga, OH!
Pop the top, drop the top
Cop a grip, chop the block
I'm bout to cop the block, the block is hot
The block is a block that block the blocks, OH! Feel me?!
I rock the rocks, that rock the rocks
Then drop the drop, cops get shot, the pop...
I got shots for tops, n*ggas!
[Talking with A&R talking sh*t in the background]
Young Corleone Capone a force of AKA Real Clinton, y'know'm sayin'?
JFK Jr. of this rap sh*t, y'know'm sayin'?
I got bricks comin' out my ass, n*gga, y'know'm sayin'?
I sleep bricks, n*gga, y'know'm sayin'?
I got cocaine everywhere, n*gga, yea!