DJ Unknown & DJ Mekalek ft. Ike P - “Who the Hell Want It?”
[Emcee(s): Ike P]
[Producer(s): Insano]
[DJ Mix: DJ Unknown and DJ Mekalek]
[Scratches: DJ Unknown and DJ Mekalek]
[Intro: Ike P]
Yeah. No doubt (Word up. Hip hop). Bring it to your head with Insano. Word up. Hip hop, hip hop (Hip hop) emcee immerses rapping (Yeah, hip hop). Cvees, T.B.A., .dms energetic (Yeah), poetic. (Writers Guild, Stronghold) Yo (I be ill like [?]), yo
[Verse 1: Ike P]
Bust out with my small frame, I’ll bring
Pain like Sugar Shane while your rhymes are asinine
This dope style remains, flow with the joules of the brain
Go against the grain constantly (Why?), ‘cause rappers want to entertain
With mundane artistry—pardon me. No need to be
Rude. It’s the truth. Rappers isn’t true. They were stupid
Constant talk of the loo with all their talk about ice
They’re making hip hop cold with their corny songs. Keep it warm
When that shit gets old, my scriptures scold like Hilter
Running campers to death. Put emcees to the test if they’re nice
Put Cvees on their neck ‘cause, without the stamp of approval
They’re left without disposal. Getting close to borderlines
With a manuscript that is vocal to the point it attacks
Your neck muscles. Punks, I’ll bust you quicker than a hard rock
A proven fact on any Harlem block. You’re walking ‘em, yo, I’m
Searching the [?] for chronic spots with a lot of props for the
Chickens that flock and lick the cock without the street food
Yo, my deadly education was taught by the faculty. Battle me?
Not into casually—more than likely with casualties
Smash you half of three, use my own pen on my own
Papers, zoning with beats. No cloning my feats—don’t even
Speak. You’re mad weak. Ike P dismisses
The Bleek from Memphis, the hollow weak, and the fate of my era
In it forever. Fugazi competitors glisten
Prepare yourself for the next exhibit (Yo, so who the hell want it?)
[Hook: Ike P]
Best believe rappers don’t need it (Not at all) unless they feel like
Ending a paraplegic (You have no legs). My street niggas hitting
The trees, sticking the freak chicks from the planet of Harlem
Check out this lyrical deepness. Who the hell want it? (Nobody)
Best believe rappers don’t need it (Hold that) unless they feel like
Ending a paraplegic (You have no legs). My street niggas hitting
The trees, sticking the freak chicks from the planet of Harlem
Check out this lyrical deepness
[Interlude 1: Ike P]
Yes. It’s time to stop your mass confusion. Word up
[Verse 2: Ike P]
These subpar rappers all had a chance to spit your last illusion
Take a glance at chewed music where pro-ers flow with a crew
That, with the proper dusage of this, we’ll make you look stupid
And shit after your crew gets dissed. I’m fully equipped
With gallant talent that’s advanced and legit. I’ll take a stance
To what? My camp is the shit. Who got the twenty other gummies
To twist? (I do). From the jar to the Dutch, Bacardi I’ll clutch
Gives it more of a kick. We’re raw sewer, so applaud
For the gift, son. The science we drop is real and lyrical
Just as well as political, powerful like centripetal
Force. Of course I’m professional. You’re mad corny, plus
Your performance is unacceptable. You need to [?]
Your assessment’s short of remedial. If Day of Judgement is coming
Hit your local cathedral. The focus I’ll breathe continue
To eat you with an eager attempt. Since the day I was born
Been nice and live a hundred percent (Yo, who the hell want it?)
[Hook: Ike P]
‘Cause, best believe, rappers don’t need it (Why?) unless they feel like
Ending a paraplegic (You have no legs). My street niggas hitting
The trees, sticking the freak chicks from the planet of Harlem
Check out this lyrical deepness. Who the hell want it?
‘Cause, best believe, rappers don’t need it (Not at all) unless they feel like
Ending a paraplegic (You have no legs). My street niggas hitting
The trees, sticking the freak chicks from the planet of Harlem
Check out this lyrical deepness
[Verse 3: Ike P]
Excited by the
Exhilarating makes you a buyer, despite hotter the fire
You know? Without a chance to perspire, the wack crucified
I’m producing this by the styles of desire, tired of liars
[?] and rhyming hyper, I’ll dislike your methods. What I
Have touched will leave the best decrepit, discredit your function
Fronting rappers get [?]
Point of attack is for the wack, from the state-protected, reckless
Aftereffects show you’ll see what hectic is. No need for retrospection
‘Cause they’re not involved in this stretch of time and nothing but
Pleasure rhymes in my section. You’re static, I’m more like
Protection, coming across crispy and clear, feel what I say
See what you hear, never agree with deception
Just blowing trees into the atmosphere, but the rebel race
Of my niggas know how to bring it here, taste original flavor
Place fatness right on your palate, eradicate
Ridiculous rappers with bad habits up in Manhattan
Where Ike Booster was raised rapping in [?], holding
The fort, fighting with Africans. Frightened, you’ll stab ‘em in
You happen to think of battling? You’re best to back up when
The verbal vernacular [?] (So who the hell want it?)
[Hook: Ike P]
‘Cause, best believe, rappers don’t need it (Smack your strategy down) unless they feel like (Yeah)
Ending a paraplegic (You have no legs). My street niggas hitting
The trees (Haha), sticking the freak chicks (Yeah) from the planet of Harlem
Check out this lyrical deepness. Who the hell want it? (Nobody)
‘Cause, best believe, rappers don’t need it (Not at all) unless they feel like
Ending a paraplegic (You have no legs). My street niggas hitting
The trees, sticking the freak chicks from the planet of Harlem
Check out this lyrical deepness. Who the hell want it?
[Outro: Ike P]
Yeah, yeah. Emcees, who the hell want it? Corny rappers and sweet niggas
