KRS-One, Ill Will Fulton - Slap Them Up lyrics

Tellin' it like it is
Right about now DJ premier is in the
Motherfuckin' house and shit
Ya know what I'm sayin'? But yo
Yo Kris, run that shit, ya
Know what I'm sayin'? That, that shit
My joint run that motherfuckerit's
Only right kid (Do it, do it, do it)
Drop that bassline
You want lyrics? We give ya
Lyrics check it out now, one time
(Do it, do it, do it)

When we come in all de
Dance 'nuff DJ's shut up, woy!
Gal! Will ya come slap dem up
When we come in all de
Dance 'nuff DJ's shut up, woy!
Ill Will, slap dem up

MC's get ate, get broken like a pretzel


And get dissed if they ever try to step to
They can't take a MC with loose lips
Talk a lotta shit but
Sink no motherfuckin' ships
Lyrics make bigger holes than hollow tips
Watch another rapper body get stiff
Just like in church, we pass the basket
As I preach over his casket
Fuck it, kick the body right over
And say "See ya, hmmnice to know ya"
Got another rapper to see
Yo Kris, bust that ass

Certainly either shit or get off the pot
Let the original rapper rock the spot
You stand there and jock, goin' mumbles
This is absolutely ludicrous
What can you do to KRS chattin' foolishness
Step along quick with that stupidness
It's me reppin' this for self
Where else ya lookin'?
I got more rhymes than all
The Jamaicans in Brooklyn
So beat it or be seated, G
I'm mad undefeated
Young boy, you can't see me
Run along and make pee-pee
I was rockin' rhymes when
"La-Di-Da-Di" was a demo
Admit you been on my tip for years
And just can't seem to let go
Go, go call your mother
Tell her you wanna battle KRS quick
I bet the minute you get home
You'll get your ass whipped
Crazy ill mad styles is what I give 'em
Not a run-of-the-mill'em, I drill 'em
I got ridiculous rhythm
None of my styles you can get with'em
Still um, will um
Your crew come get some so I can kill'em

Well I roll by myself but
Don't let it fool ya
If I got beef my crew'll damn step to ya
We don't play no games
I'll come straight to your rest
Lift up your shirt and blast
You in your chest

Well that was fresh
A fad doesn't fill the bill
But mad skills will
Don't let me have to kill you kid
God forbid still
Greed will lead your need to succeed
But your speed, your speech
Your outreach is a breach of what I teach
For lyrical styles, you're a leech
If I was Spanish I'd say
"You rhyme like a beech"
Wow-wow-wow-wow, wow-wow-wow, wow-wow-wow
Wow, for a amateur you really looked hard
But you're really a bitch
When you get it together
Call me, here's my card
Check the list: you lack breath control
Mental behavior
Lyrical talent, imagination, and flavor
I got no time for amateur rhyme
You could be hurt
Thinkin' you're hard because you
Wear a gangsta T-Shirt
I'll smash your wannabe ass in the deep dirt
Black, you'll come up dizzy sayin' "How
Da fuck he do dat?"
'Cause you're yappin' like you
Can't be reached
If your name ain't Arrested Development
Well save your speech
Time to ill, I got mad skills to fill
Not a fake, i got more styles than
Drake's got tasty cakes
Gotta be the best, G, don't try to test me
You'll get jacked son
Even if your name is not Jesse
Let's be up front when I meet ya
Peace, uh, I'm the motherfuckin' teacher

When we come in all de
Dance 'nuff DJ's shut up, woy!
Gal! Will ya come slap dem up
When we come in all de
Dance 'nuff DJ's shut up, woy!
Gal! Will ya come slap dem up, up, up, up, up
(Do it, do it, do it)

Yosouth Bronx, South South Bronx
South Bronx, South Southyo, Uptown
Brooklyn's in the house
Lemme tell ya 'bout Staten Island
What aboutqueens?