Eddie Ill, D.L., Mr. Complex, Percee P, Prince Po - Prince Po, Mr. Complex, and Percee P Freestyle (The Time Has Come!) lyrics

Uh, yes another mission, another quest prince
Po now you know uh, uh, uh what? Yes no
Doubt, represent the South this is how we
Do, yo off the top like this, yo yo

I’ll represent my man Eddie Ill and DL
Let’s excel, jet propel
Hover over New York City, keep you shitty
This is how I keep it running
With the grimy and gritty
Uh, that’s how I was grew up, brought up
This is how I get you niggas caught up
In a situation like this watch me thrust
Bust only in God I trust us
Niggas ain’t taking no shorts
Catch you niggas on court ‘cause there’s a
Battle that’s fought
And won just begun, shit’s done
J’s straight from the basement son of a gun
The shogun coming off the top of the melon
Busting down your cerebellum you


Better tell him
Prince Po representer of forty projects
Uh, kick it specific and
Visualize the objects
That’s coming out of my mouth from the South
Uh, peace to my nigga, no doubt
Rest in peace that was my dog from uptown
Uptown set uh, we get down
Uh, how that sound off my melon?
Off my top, never storytelling
I keep it simple when I kick the instrumental
Keep it ripping as I do it for your mentals
Off the top, uh, Queens never will stop
Hip hop forever until the next drop
It’s all good and gravy, no "if" ands
Or "maybes"
Catch me in a hooptie, catch me in a Mercedes
It don’t matter I got G’s in my pockets
Nigga, how you feeling
Nigga? How you rock it?
Why you clocking? You on
My dick for something? As I do it like this
We keep it Pumping like soles
Coast to coast, don’t brag or boast
Known as the underrated America’s most
From here to Japan, I can’t stand
When niggas won’t see me
Come through and stand
On my own ‘cause I’m bad to the bone
To the bone gristle until
They blow the whistle
The game’s over your shit
Should have been tight
Nigga, come and see me next year, aight?
Motherfucker

Yo, I be up in places, be up in faces
Running these mics like razors well
Let me jog
Your mind with this fat style that
You sweat unless you a reptile
Then I disregard your rap
And have new linoleum
You face Napoleon complex from
The lyrical Complex
Take you out of the content ‘cause
I ain’t want to battle
I just want to bat a little with a
Baseball you know? Like a friendly game
Like the Dodgers and keep a
Friendly name like Mr rogers
Spit in front of me like Chucky
You’re an Enemy like Chuck D
Chuck a little something at your ten-men
Crew if someone’s still standing there
I chuck another catch a spear
But, I’m not spearchucker, motherfucker
You say, "It ain’t fair" I say
"You know what else ain’t fair? Life"
Know what else ain’t fair? You got
A gun i got a knife
But, you ain’t got no bullets
My knife is of plastic
You moths suck, but I got more
Skills, so to end you, get your ass kicked

Mr complex: It’s like that
It get drastic complex, what?
Percee P: yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s the monarch
Of the subterranean legendary
Lethal lyricist
The Rhyme Inspector Percee P that BX
Shit check it out, y’all uh, uh

In the industry, some mimic me
And my image, B, my chemistry
The flow infinitely with no limit, G
I’m gimmick-free
Shed the knowledge the mental-dead’ll frolic
So as heads in college
The men are ‘bolic, researching writers
Rhymes are writ with garlic
Some say, "Percer rhyming may burst ya ego
When hit
They hurt ya way worser" The Ray Mercer
I’m dusting niggas urgently
Need emergency surgery
Every word’ll leave third-degree
Burns from combustion
Leave eyes black, guys smacked your size
Mac for wisecracks
Through the lies, cats known
To replies back die, jack
I’m like a wide screen: showing
Drama word to mama
When the rhymer cause more trauma
Than a homicide scene
I know this nigga named Ricky his girl
Nikki want to get with me
Said, "Stick me just a quickie lick
Me and leave a hickie"
Turf: BX scorn kids, leave their borns with
Birth defects uh, mics fell from my delivery
Of soliloquys i’m deadly as killer bees
But more iller, G
Got you feeling me like Braille
Huh it’s like this and like that, y’all black
I’m back to smack these wack
New jacks who rap, y’all

Uh yeah, yeah
Shouts to my crew: Hardcore’s Finest rhymer
My man Plain Pat, Dub-L the Vinyl Dogs
Y’all peace