Bits & Pieces

Lyrics

[Verse 1] 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")