Rodan ft. Kong, Kamackeris, and Gigan - “Roll Call”
[Emcee(s): Rodan, Kong, Kamackeris, and Gigan]
[Producer(s): X-Ray Da Mindbenda]
[Intro (Overlapped with Hook): Kong]
Niggas done fucked up. Monsta Island has returned. Kongcrete, the most hated. Word is bond, smack the blood out of them, Rodan. Pterodactyl. Let ‘em know nigga, let ‘em know. What? Uh
[Hook (Overlapped with Intro): Samples] (x4)
“I bring confusion like roll call”
“To emcees so-called, hoes be like, ‘Yup, I told y’all’”
[Verse 1: Rodan]
Ayyo
Capital city nights, blood letters written in prison on a kite
Put that crab out of sight, blow that scallywag like his first name
Was Kid Dynamite. One day home, flirting with women that
Stare, macking off effeminate flare, short skirts, fly
Cinnamon hair. Grimy niggas got angst, rolling like
Tanks through Tiananmen Square, elevate through power of diamond
Industry virgins rub on your hymens. Faggot record label execs:
This ain’t 1955, and we ain’t no Frankie Lymons
Why do fools follow a lying critic? Bop your head
Respect the rhyming misfit, brilliant timing, resilient shining
Drop more jewels than the diamond district, designed and fitted
Jury acquitted. Verbally eclectic, nervously
Respected, purposely expected, anointed ever since
I was cervically ejected. A-Alike criminal mind stay
Surgically connected. Solo, one-man, going for self
Or ride thick, hundred-man-deep, gangland-style, and me and
A sidekick smack the C.O. at the off-duty party and
Slide quick—that’s a live clique—rocking heat under the seat
Glide slick, sitting on a wide brick—blow for blow
Celebrated tit-for-tatting, disguised gats wrapped in silk
And satin, and bounce to the rap diplomatting, upper-room
Chit-chatting over this and that and going platinum spitting Pig
Latin, written in Manhattan, landmarked as a true believer
Waiting just to send a thousand deaths to a deceiver
Rugged like sports apparel, you’re stuck in front of PlayStation with Pac-
-Man fever. Monsta global, plan may destroy man
Marching through the Terrordome like Babes in Toyland
Industry domination with the goal to blow up like white boy bands
On the battle site, seeking out the Sun like a satellite
Reception trouble-free, bubble-screen TV, kick more
Lyrics per verse than most niggas spit on a double CD
[Verse 2: Kong]
Hip hop be Kong. The Devil’s
Advocate assassin, assassin is K-Slash slashing
Fasten seatbelt, third gear passing harassment
Lyrical black bastard burn this plastic, dick
Stupid asses for access after blasting
Struck quickly, bust back. Cost your stupid ass
A Buck Fifty plus tax, screaming, “Fuck
That.” You’s a tough cat, non-sweet two-piece
Chin full of meat, Kongcrete. Fuck a fork
In a tussle, I’d rather go up in a duffle, have you
Slow up on your hustle, toe-up under the trestle, scuffle
Mouth muzzled, puzzled—should have spoke up. Woked up
Coked up, roped up under the sofa. Me?
A hoping ass, a broke ass. Instead of dope or smoking
Hash, drink rum out of a broken glass. Crooked
Tooth, knock-kneed, cop heat from swap meets, pop
Heat to calmly drop deep at top speed
Philosophic topics obnoxious and raucous
Like soup with chopsticks, y’all can’t eat, your profit
All from garbage, we profits off of logic
My name and style: Kongcrete, the most
Hated, underestimated, rated, never dated, just laid it
Decaffeinated, Cask decayed, they passed the weighted
My man blast and blaze him. “What happened?” “You ate him”
We laughed then played ‘em, master players at the Brook’ house
Of mass orators. Kongcrete
[Hook: Samples]
“Hoes be like, ‘Yup, I told y’all’”
“I told y’all”
“I told y’all”
“I told y’all”
“I told y’all”
“I told y’all”
“I told y’all”
“I told y’all”
“I bring confusion like roll call”
“To emcees so-called, hoes be like, ‘Yup, I told y’all’”
“I bring confusion like roll call”
“To emcees so-called, hoes be like, ‘Yup, I told y’all’”
[Verse 3: Kamackeris]
You get
Smashed, you bitch-ass, you ain’t gonna last
We represent those Decepticons, boom bash
Way back in the diggy. Now niggas getting jiggy
Fronting like they’re murdering, up in your crib, burglaring
When they ain’t moving nathing, talking nothing
Straight fronting, microphone-bluffing
And you ain’t wanna put me down, y’all
Niggas must have thought I was clown, but this
World go round, and Kwite Def going loud
Yo, I get up on my ass ‘cause my ass don’t slouch
Some of y’all be lazy, looking for
Handouts, talking that shit with the yuck mouth
Go ahead with it, get off my dick and for-
-feit it. You couldn’t do a step in my kicks, now you’s
A critic? That’s that bullshitted. Y’all fucking
Niggas be out boning broads who don’t give
A fuck—first night, they drop drawers, and you could care
Less about catching some HIV
What y’all niggas really need is some A-I-D
So I say, “La vie.” Y’all niggas probably
Think you gotta thug just to emcee, y’all be
Fantasy, Disney in 2G
Never kick mentally, blind spiritually
[Hook: Sample]
“To emcees so-called, hoes be like, ‘Yup, I told y’all’”
[Verse 4: Gigan]
Quickly
Falling in the gutter, departing on that other
Anyone come get it—shit, even Stalin or my brother
Palm gripping rubber, spit it all in your gutter
Slice through you blubber like a Gemstar through butter
Hustlers like me don’t see the name. Hand scale, the weight
In his face, yo, popping but, shit, still need a gram
O-Z’s, see your fam, not Greyhound but four
Fiends blessed, plus it moved beyond Peter Pan
See, the plan’s a bag of chicken shit. Since you’re from New York
Beyond, where they’re on the thick and shit, gas ‘em up so they
Flap lips and shit ‘bout where the green move fiends, and who
Stack chips and shit, raise clips at quivers, stripping
Shit, spread samples out, let ‘em know whose
Shit this is and that they should stick to this. It’s that
Raw shit, have you stutter-stepping and drooling. If brothers
Talk war, quickly cock weapons and school ‘em, tell ‘em:
My treaties ain’t equal—on some biz—and you’ll
Feel this Desert Eagle if you play Paul Revere, so don’t
Tell your people Brooklon is here. Turn, the waist
Stands out like Bugsy Siegel strapped in war gear. Don’t take
A hustler to know a hustler