Текст (слова) песни: Masta Ase, Inc. - The Big East

 
Awwww....yeaaaah... 
 
Who is the man with the hats with the snaps, 
droppin` the raps with the truth, to the youth that`s bustin` the caps? 
Who could it be? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a tree? 
No, it`s me: Capital-A, capital-S, capital-E. 
Boomin` like thunda, strikin` like lightnin`. 
Welcome to my Slaughtahouse, I know it`s frightenin`. 
I`m hittin` em over the head with lyrical styles like a bottle. 
My foot`s on the pedal, my hand is on the throttle. 
I`m turbo-boostin` from Houston to Vegas. 
You want us to quit, but shit, you can`t make us. 
There`s too much money to make, money to get, money to earn. 
My pockets are on "E", and I want money to burn. 
I got GUSTO, plus yo, I`m zeekin` `em. 
Rollin` with L.D., Ken, Eyce, and Neek and `em. 
Phat tracks, I`m freakin` `em, word to your auntie. 
It`s written all over your face, I know you want me. 
Scientifical mathematical war. 
Rhymes and beats harder than Trigonometry 4. 
So open your books to page one, and I`ll show you how it`s done, 
it`s the roughneck kid without a gun. 
I`m laughin`-- ha ha! -- it`s fun to watch you weep as 
you`re cryin`, dyin`, try and figure out the Jeep Ass 
Nig-guh, bigger and better and badder than ever before, 
hittin` with hardcore lyrical calesthenics that make me sore. 
And the shower of fire, supplier of the real, 
get with the program and I`m slammin` like Shaquille. 
Right on your head, do what I said, backin` me up is the D: 
 (Lord Digga:)You must be crazy if you wanna mess with me. 
 Cuz I am not the one, kid. 
Oh no, he ain`t the one, son. 
The shank in my sock will chop you like an onion. 
So Boom, head for the hills, head for the freakin` border. 
I slaughter, like Great White Sharks, I`m makin` sparks. 
 
 Refrain: 4x 
 Comin` from the Big East, boy, we ain`t slippin`. 
 ("Don`t you know?") Don`t even think about it, yeah. 
 
As I walk through Brooklyn, Compton or whatever, 
I wonder why black folks don`t wanna stick together. 
We talk about justice, and how little we get, 
yet black men be killin` black men for talkin` shit... (right...right...) 
("Here`s the one, that one that always talkin` shit...") [gun shots] 
How the hell we supposed to wage war against the powers that be 
when we are still our own worst enemy. 
That`s why I`m the Masta, I`m tryin` to tell you kid, 
I`ll break it down simply, right back to the freestiddyle. 
I`m bashin` --BREAKIN`-- I`ll fry you like bacon. 
I don`t smoke blunts, boy, you must be mistaken. 
I do smoke mics and MCs that come widdem. 
I hit `em and get `em and sit `em down, then I spit `em 
out some lyrical phlegm from deep within me. 
I`m not John, but I`m Madd-en I`ll give you Moore than Demi. 
I burn like tobasco, your ass, yo don`t beg (?) 
Miss Crabtree, Stumpy said you had a wooden leg. 
So I brought my axe and a box full of termites, 
cuz I got your big, fat booty in my sites. 
I`m not from Philly, but I fly like an Eagle, 
my rap book is thicker than a catalog from Spiegel. 
A Regal, I do not drive, I drive a Jeep and 
I should say drove one, some suckers caught me sleepin`. 
But next time they break in my car to rip the Ase off, 
I`ll have a pitbull waitin` to rip their freakin` face off. 
(Sick `em boy...) [barking and yelling] 
 
 Refrain 4x 
 
("On and on and on, it`s on..." "On and on and on, it`s on...")
 

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Boom Bashin
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