It goes, KRS-ONE-two, one-Tupac, That’s my mic-check, when I heat rock. Heat rocking mic-checker, checker and a chess move, Always on point when I point prove. What ya want, some got good? Like a got a lot better, Who ever thought I’d be a mic-check getter? Whether off or on, you’re an acquired taste, When I write my rhyme, I never waste. Don’t you ever let it go, Always be true to yourself. Don’t you ever let it go, Always be true to yourself. Never ever uncertain with a syllable, I pay my taxes, so everything is billable. I save all my receipts, ‘Cause I know John can bang out some beats. I put him to the test, then he tested my levels, And we gon’ lay it down like so that nothing ever bevels. We coming at you with that new school hip hop, Old school poet, lime green top crop. I got it from a jar, then you got if from my car. You tell me you love it, or this is what’s wrong, Without a hip-hop identity I still stand strong. And you gon’ be impressed to hear our brand new song. And you gon’ be impressed to hear this brand new project, And you gon’ be impressed to hear this brand new logic. It was wonderful to tell, ‘cause he tell it quite often, Probably tell that tale on the way to his coffin. He writes down his life, collects what he feels,
Collected thought inside of loose-leaf seals. Some things you’ll have to read and he’ll record what he can, Trying to build the bridge between the words and the man. He clicks his pen as he counts to ten, Flip a new page, start all over again.
The machine finally figured out it needs more parts, ‘Cause of all of the brains and all of the hearts. Yo he make everybody bleed they own blood, Dag with the snap face dude was like crud. It was top shelf; it was the cats meow, No it wasn’t like bloop; the shit was like blaow. So on the level; I’d put my honor on that, And that refers to the shelf and the rhyme about the cat. Did it like that on some dumb dumb ditaow.