Choclair, Kardinal Offishall, and Y-Look Freestyle (The Time Has Come!)

Lyrics

[Intro: Kardinal Offishall and (Y-Look)] Haha. Yeah, you know this already (Sup?). The year was 1999 (Fucking 9). Eddie Ill (Eddie Ill) and DL (Uh). The illest (Yeah) with The Circle (Circle!). Kardinal Offishall (Yeah), Y-Look, and Choclair (Y-Look, Choclair). Illest verses ever recorded (Uh)! Trust me on that. This is going out to any nigga trying to diss, trust (Trust me, yo). Ayyo [Verse 1: Kardinal Offishall] A diss ain't a diss if a diss has discrepancies I dismiss your dissidence and doubt your intelligence In disgust, I disjoint your disc from the dispatch And disenthrall all of y'all from shit that's wack Steady disguising your disfavor. Disliking my steelo? This ain't kindergarten—you don't have to go where we go Discipline yourself before your ego disappears When I discreetly disassemble you from your career Stupid, this is not your ordinary rapper diss This is so all y'all niggas discover just who the dapper is Causing discomfort, just allowing your disc jock to rock Any record 'cause your whole sound's flop, yo This is going out to niggas who diss without Thinking about what the hell they're doing. Yo, your shit we're booing Boo (Boooo)! And while I discombobulate you This is going out to any nigga opposing my crew [Verse 2: Choclair] Ayyo, I'm know to hit you with the flavor like I'm Cola, hitting skins It's the Choclair, brother, better known as Dark Skin Pulling skins with my finger, ladies who be licking Girls jerking on my roller like Jamaican fucking chicken I stand up on the stage and then I rock hard Pasty girls come with attitudes but got their puss scarred 'Cause I'm that ill flower. Yes, that raw dog bastard Sealing girls' cracks like my name was fucking plaster Grab the microphone and you know I never fall Your girl's got a sore throat, use my balls as a Bradosol What? So, motherfucker, go for yours 'Cause I'll be dropping rhymes like your girls drop her drawers So don't test me 'cause you'll get your head wrecked, you'll go home And your girl's legs are split and the mailman's having breakfast Shit. Yo, I get ill, no doubt I'll tit-fuck your girl and leave stains on the blouse Nigga, what? [Verse 3: Y-Look] Yeah, what's your case? Ain't no need to contemplate or debate I smack the taste out your mouth and make your nose menstruate Period. Your period has come to an end That track was booty wack—can't believe that they put you up in the blend I scream, "Revolution," while Shayṭān screams, "Cream" I'm trying to show these young cats that there's more to this rap than green Circle clique ain't a team—we a regime Storming the process, stoning lands like Afghan with [?] In this rap drought, ritualistic rap brings the rain Burns with flame or butane for that shit you claimed Disintegrate your clique, looking like powdered cocaine Put a virus in your mainframe and rock spots like Sting [Outro: Y-Look] Yeah, Y-Look, Kardinal, and Choclair for our man Eddie Ill and DL. Via the mixtape, T-Dot's brought to the world. Suck it! Fuck it