[Thes One:]
I dream about walking into a warehouse with vinyl in massive amounts
That hasn't been touched… jazz, rock‚ funk‚ and such
To come through in a clutch like a musical crutch
To give my life some light on nights when my girl fights
([Double K in a girly voice:] That's all you care about!)
Things that come and go‚ my records are original
Soundtrack from way back reminded me to stay back
The '92 hip-hop, the needle in the haystack
The breakbeats on wax that kept me in an interested state
To learn facts, jump out‚ and dig plates
Filling my crates, appreciate originals who made it
Things move in cycles, and hip-hop is slated for a disco demise
Synthetic kicks and snares and keyboards ruling the charts
Are on the rise‚ open your eyes, my people lose your history
Ten years digging, and half the shit's still a mystery
So play out on my played-out record, I'm on my way out
You couldn't understand what it's like for the payout
Picking up the pieces of a musical puzzle
One record at a time, reconstruct, write our rhymes
Spent all my living time trying to follow the line
From South box ones and twos to drum machines
That do the same damn thing, I'm a hip-hop being
And I don't take it for granted, it's not yours to change
Even though it's been handed down, so dig the sound
People Under The Stairs are musically profound
It's not yours to change, even if it's handed down
People Under The Stairs'll stay musically profound with the…
[Rap sample:] In every section, tag team connection…
[Rap sample, scratched:] The bomb combo… (x4)

[Double K:]
Now, every high-hat, kick, snare is snatched off wax
Blowing chumps off like dust, trust that we'll bust back
Strapped with extra stylus, doubles of my favorite jam
Keep the compact disc on the dash and watch us smash this
Breakdown and everything's on the one
You telling me no sampling, I'm telling you it's no fun
Fake bitch, take this colored keyboard and shove it
Where you know it'll hurt, hey, y'all ain't making no beats?
So why these record spots burnt? Collect celebrity cards
And leave the vinyl for the people doing it, staying in charge
I talk to my records, I don't loop 'em then abuse 'em
They get a comfortable environment, I'm out buying it
Funky breaks, psychedelic jazz and more
What's this? Some hip-hop? Ay-yo, show us the whole flow
'Cause me and Thes go for broke like Gamble and Huff
Keep the basslines meaty, drumline rolls tough
With the… we produce like old farmers in the fields, naturally
Without some punk asking me
"Where's the cowbell, triangle, and all the fake scratching?"
If it wasn't on the source or where we lifted it, we rid of it
Keep your downloaded sounds in that disk drive
Before I call the Funk Mob and get to throwing 45s
Harder than your high-producer remix and ain't one
I ain't feeling none of these sissy beatmakers on the run
I'm 'bout to pack my record bags and take the show on the road
Continue to build rhythms, keep the status shit cold
Hardcore, no joke, back-spinning and winning
Truncating that weak shit… you ain't making shit? Don't speak shit!
Yeah!
[Rap sample:] In every section, tag team connection…
[Spoken sample:] There's a lot of stuff out here…
[Spoken sample:] Yeah… (x4)

[Rap sample:] In every section, tag team connection…
[Rap sample, scratched:] The bomb combo… (scratched and repeated)

([Spoken sample:] Come back! Come back!)