[Intro: Vakill]
Big [?]. Uh. Eddie Ill, D.L. Look out for the album. Vakill. Uh. Ravenous. Molemen for life. N***a, what? Huh?

[Verse 1: Vakill]
In this world
Designed in linen and ice-driven, I actually
Flip advice, giving an earner nice living in turn
I’m too nice for your own good. Would be nice if you had
A fan base of at least one single motherfucker from your own hood
Pities no more. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Never mattered
Who the nicest. I’m nice and you ain’t shit but a nice track
And that’s just being nice about it. You need to have a nice
One to save face like a presidential rodeo with the ice about it
Careful who you fucking and flowing with. I’m throwing spit
Spitefully deep-rooted and I got a nice way of showing shit
But nothing nice, nothing nice and dig around in your drawers
Fight off a mic feedback and get a nice round of applause
Spit twice the phlegm, drop Christ a gem ‘til God tell him
“Go, ‘Hey,’ say, ‘Thank you,’ son. That was awfully nice of him”
I shine to precisely Sun/son, spit ultraviolet and spill
Crimson-red with a black ballpoint. Nicely done
While you worry ‘bout making nice impressions, you should
I got all of you suspect-ass n***as, so-called “nice” in question
Whether you got a nice ass or a thug real with an ice
Core in ya, to put it nicely, fuck you and nice knowing ya
[Interlude 1: Qwel]
Qwel, Chicago underground hip hop. Molemen on the beat

[Verse 2: Qwel]
Heads beware, bear witness to the birth of lyricism
Dangle raps by the ankles, spank ‘em to the rhythm
The shit kids be spitting gets kittens belittled
Fuck with Qwel once—me—now he’s sprinting like a cripple
Tried to move the crowd, fast-forward diction
Chicago took rap back, didn’t ask your permission
Conception was concept. Never sporting fashion
Like a simile spitting metaphorgasms
That’s when forfeits happen—smacking your gums
It spits facts while you brag of packing a gun
It never has to waste time on faking a 9. If you
Were really hardcore, would you have to make it rhyme?
For the last time, you just got passed like a scholar
Your shit don’t make sense, but sense/cents don’t make dollars
Class is in session—best not question the teacher
Rocking a “What Would Mass Hysteria Do?” T-shirt
Pointing a finger at Prime and Vakill, scaring
Heads underground like ostriches. The rhymes I build
Are infinite. Yo, we spit it, live it every aspect
Divvying dividends for dues for those who slept

[Interlude 2: Prime]
Yeah, yeah, Prime. Check. Uh, uh. Yo, uh
[Verse 3: Prime]
Consider my raps
Laced with arsenic when I spit on a play tape
I’ll deliver the facts straight: you cats sitting in last place
Don’t approach me on shit. I’ll disfigure your man’s face
That’s the penalty to pay each time this cat demands space
I’m past wasting time, forced to split seconds and break habits
You beating me’s a funny thought like a gay cat rocking a straitjacket
I hate rappers, heard y’all n***as spit these days
And every single one of y’all bitches sounds like shit these days
I’ll quickly spray cats with a dose of the verb
So if you see me up in your cypher, don’t say a word
Remain silent—talking smack’ll get you laid to the curb
I’ll strip your pockets of your hash and start blazing your herb
I’ve observed the way you cats came in the game this year
And I respect that, but y’all don’t know who y’all are playing with here
Y’all ain’t my peers. Y’all emcees are hardly even men
And kids are so wack nowadays, I’m listening to R&B again
So see me spend time with each line that I put down
And look how these shook clowns all want to be crooks now
I’ll stay vexed for days. I got you rewinding and pressing “Play”
I got your mom—kid, I’m rocking you right now at your present age
Heads are slain—cowards and nerds gotta get served
I’ll write your verses on my nuts and force you to swallow your words
So don’t fuck with Prime or me or mine. All of us are spoken for
I’m laughing at you trying to spit them punchlines through a broken jaw
What?
[Interlude 3: Mike Treese (of Mass Hysteria)]
Yeah. It’s Mike Treese from Mass Hysteria. One time. Check it out

[Verse 4: Mike Treese (of Mass Hysteria)]
Right now
You following the sounds of this Chicagoan, Hyde Parker
The mic sparker. I’ll bite the ill shit like Clive Barker
Far from a jive-talker, the midnight stalker
You dread. Ligotti blast chumps until they’re dead
Use shotties, fill ‘em with more lead than gas pumps
Take hotties in cash lumps, leave their bodies in trash dumps
I’m orchestrating, creating it morbid. The raw shit
I’m saying is making you forfeit and worship Satan
When emcees are tripping, that just get me to empty
The clip in this microphone, titanium-gripping
To put it simply: I’m ripping. You can’t prevent me from flipping
Don’t ask why they sent me. Evidently, you’re slipping
So, chief, you would’ve played like a Hindu and be
Not into beef ‘cause I’ll send you grief you’ve never been through
Ain’t no relief for what my pen do. I’ll get all up in
Your metabolism, slow you down like a bag of izm
Snap, I’ll wet up kids like a baptism, rap to the rhythm
And cause a cataclysm to this wack system of capitalism
I got mad lyrics, lyrics that’ll make you mad
Lyrics’ll that diss you bad ‘cause they lyrics you wish you had
But you ain’t no Big Willy, you silly cat. Your pockets is
Filled with olestra, meaning they’re not really fat
And my man Panik got the bombing speeds. Peace to my atomic peeps
Emcees see treats and cover their grills like Islamic freaks

[Interlude 4: Gee-Field (of Mass Hysteria) and Mike Treese (of Mass Hysteria)]
Mike Treese (of Mass Hysteria): Yeah
Gee-Field (of Mass Hysteria): Yeah, it’s like that, y’all. Check it out, check it out, check it, yo

[Verse 5: Gee-Field (of Mass Hysteria)]
Yo, my adrenaline peaks when rocking over sinister beats
So respect when this minister speaks, diminishing geeks
I’m making papers even when I’m asleep. Panik’ll mix
This shit down, plus add the finishing tweaks. I’ll keep
The Timberlands laced up in case ducks
Get out of place, end up with your face maced up, neck braced up
It’s on now. My lines leave you in suspense
I’m hard to see through like a Regal with illegal tints
And I don’t brag on how I cock pistols. That shit
Is artificial like training bras to be stuffed with Scott tissues
Whoever try to fuck with Gee-Field, they got issues
I’ll fly high over your headquarters and drop missiles
Blowing up your battle station, making you die
From heavy inhalation of nuclear radiation
So lyrical that you could get ragged from just a syllable
My physical presence is felt even when I’m not visible
So you don’t want to excite me. Flows be feisty
And complex like the mental aspects of tai chi
Invite me to a battle, mistake’s drastic
You fake bastards rather take acid and jump in Lake Placid
I’ll make classics, so once the tape’s mastered
Purchase it and never hesitate to blast it
And I don’t give a fuck if it’s live or prerecorded
Crystal-clear or distorted, imported or mail-ordered
Just run out and support it. You won’t regret that you bought it
You got to get it—shoplift it if you can’t afford it

[Outro: Gee-Field (of Mass Hysteria) and Mike Treese (of Mass Hysteria)]
Like that y’all. Yeah (Yeah), Summerside Town's finest. Yeah, we had my man Vakill, Qwel, Big Prime, Mike Treese and Gee-Field from Mass Hysteria. Yeah, my man Panik on the beat. Molemen, Eddie Ill & D.L. It’s like that, y’all. Yeah, yeah