Ayo...(what's up?)...there's a lotta motherfuckers out here with a style similar to mine nowadays you know what I mean? (For reals) Be tryin' to like...they infiltrated the camp and now they they wanna take the style and claim it for they owns ya know? (That's how you feel?) But I'mma blow'em up 'cause it's just like whatever you know what I'm sayin'? (Whatever) It's too strategical and mathematical I rotate so fast that I appear invisible I keep it chemical, but never subliminal The force centrifugal and spiritual You got static? Get grounded, 'cause I've mastered electrical Mostly mental, but don't sleep on the physical Ignorance got'em chatterin', one even said I was a son to him Still my LP is fatter than his or yours, took a two-year pause Now that I'm back on the set my foes drop like hoe's drawers in a brothel, only dealin' with what's logical Applied science left MC's penetrable The leader's stroke is apocalyptic Hostile like Arabics in Israel with automatics And if you want it, the Monks can make it hectic Set it off, fire burn up Jack Frost and Santa Claus Whatever you want to do, make it clever Whatever, whatever, whatever "And to all y'all crews...whatever" Bound to blow up, but never disintegratin' The ultimate MC equation Ferromagnetic, ask my pops, it's genetic That's why I'm a weedhead and not an alcoholic Call it whatever you want to call it Devils just know that it's some form of arithmetic Hieroglyphic, 'cause you can picture this shit The state of hip-hop today is like hookers in politics Got MCin' locked down like a convict Blowin' up opposition as I maneuver through it And to make sure it's overstood, I stick around Popular like crime in ghetto neighbourhoods Rock my crown like Shaka did, hold it down Fuck your mind up like Joe Jackson, kids, check it out So whatever you want to do, make it clever Whatever, whatever, whatever Lord Finesse: "I gotta do my thing...I represent" "And to all y'all crews, whatever" Fire, flames, heat up the competition Spontaneous combustion, like the Pope's religion your style of emceein' is Paganism Your rhymes make no sense, just like a Roman Christian But your niggas soup you up like Lipton The Gwong Jan Lin of underground emceein' strikes again The snake bites again, but I'm immune to the poisonous venom, ask the devil, he knows I'm dangerous Freak on the mic, but not sexual Call me unalike 'cause my rhymes are never homo Make you sad, like when Cher left Sonny Bono Fire burn Giuliani, Pataki and Cuomo Whatever you want to do, make it clever Whatever, whatever, whatever Lord Finesse: "I gotta do my thing...I represent" "And to all y'all crews, whatever