Styles Crew Flows Beats

You, your crew and we
We're forced to break you down 'til your eyes can see
'Til the day comes when you feel that sonic drum
Your dogs can't speak, cause the cat got your tongue

You, your crew and we
We're forced to break you down 'til your eyes can see
'Til the day comes when you feel that sonic drum
Your dogs can't speak, cause the cat got your tongue

LP, what's up you cerebellum at a hella rate
Tell 'em wait
You're not gonna see me kick thirty freestyle lines
And watch your ass regenerate
Lines I rejuvenate, jack elevates
Levels so thick, so you can't even tell your fate
When my freestyle rhymes starts to accelerate
I'll step back in the b-boy stance
Style will stop innovate
75% of signed niggas who can't participate
Waiting for the right time to rain on niggas, come and precipitate
Damn, I hate two-faced brothers always agitate
First thought, put your head on the mantle
And watch it decapitate
I rhyme early, like Laverne and Shirley
You're rapping late
Sport a 'L' on my chest
Can your elegantness rapulate, jack infiltrates
On all you wack niggas who manipulate
Brothers irritate, watch a likwit emcee step up and irrigate
Still I wait for the right time, when Wild Child's feelin' great
Hungry, cause I got the munchies, and my rhyme style still ain't ate
L's in the airs, sisters yellin' Loot to the Pack
Closin' up and illin' and searchin' brothers right to the back
Before my rap attacks, your wack style sends you back
And all ya' hear from the crowd is "We wanna' hear Cracker Jack!"
I kick a freestyle, brothers know I don't come wack
Ya' already clappin' that, a dope-ass Madlib track
Matter of fact, Wild Child known to pick up the slack
Known to pick up a wack emcee straight by the neck
Ask him why he rap
Cause I might tightly strap you in a seat
To win a trip straight to the Boombap

Style, if it wasn't for the style
It would be hard for me to show my culture profile

What about the crew? If it wasn't for the crew
It would be, only lonely me, payin' dues

Don't forget the flow, if it wasn't for the flow
Possibly, how could I suppose I could rock the shows

What about the beats? The beats...

Quasimoto
It's Mad Lib, the bad kid, Wild Child
DJ Romes, Peanut Butter Wolf
From this Stones Throw era
Yo' we bringin' it, West Coast
How we do? Mad Lib

We drop shit like some architects
Spark and get, lit to make some underground hits
Madlib, the bad kid, we drop original
Precise, conceptual, house of wood, innovation nine thousand
We keep in business like Erick and Parrish1
Have you hype like '89 like we buggin' on Terrence
Sometimes on the low-pro, styles like the no show
I'm comin' from the 'O', What we do?

The Quas, representin' Quasimoto
Peanut Butter's on the drum set
I grab the mic to run rec
I'll have you hype like illegal gun sets
Plus the Beat Conductor got my back
Attack, whenever, whoever
You wanna test me? Be bold and don't cry
The bad character you see up on the screen
We keep it clean, like a diamond ring
Or dirty like a one-night fling

(Quas and Lib) You gots to let us do our thing

We droppin' loops with static cling
While we steppin' on the scene
It's the Loop digga'
Man, it's the Loop digga'
My nigga
Yo', it's the Loop digga'
The Quas and the Pack and it's peace like Greece
For fried chicken (two million) or for Astro black sticken'
Niggas talkin' shit? Yo' watch the plot thicken
I'll leave y'all suckas wit yo' auditory sicken

(We put a curse on you
Put a curse on you!)

Like Wild Man fisher
If it's trouble in the West
We'll bring back the juice like we're Bishop
I'll smack yo' bitch up, like a pimp
And it's low-high
And your whole zoo could get revved up, and that's no lie
Quasimoto and the Pack, we keep it raw like sex
Mic check on the sets