[Intro: Psycho Les]

Yeah, ha, drop it on ‘em, drop it on ‘em

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

[Verse 1: Psycho Les]

I’ma hit you up with an exclusive

Beatnut joint got you froze like gunpoint

Bitch niggas getting drowsy

Droppin’ to their knees like prosties, shout to my Queens posse

From Northern Boulevard, straight up Junction

My system got the beat in full function

To the max, doing 90, relaxed

Down Roosevelt, Heineken between the laps

But dead that issue, time rip you like tissue

And fold you up, and wipe my ass with you

Good, make sure you understand—understood?

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

[Verse 2: Gab Gacha]

I hustle, bang, and jargon, through your jungle at a bargain

I’m hydro sparkin’, jugglin’ babies down like Barnum

You clownin’, claim the grip of flow so tight

I humble pros who go thinking it can’t happen tonight

What better time than now? Make you a distant memory

My pedigree specialize in cheddar cheese

I forever beez the architect, constantly to build my conglomerate

Construction with bricks to get us cribs and apartments

The parliament drugadelic, the flashlight

One nation under grooves on this Beatnut flight

So get the funk right, you’s the skunk type

Who spark greens? I like Cambodian, grown by the Vietnamese

While getting blown by a Philippine queen who strip tease

And see if niggas bleed like the final Godfather scenes

Now the faculties throughout the world’ll know

Watch us take notice, Chief General Gab Gacha

[Chorus]

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

[Verse 3: JuJu]

Tie ‘em up quick, light ‘em up quick, get the ends, yo

I never had too many friends, money mends

Keep a low key, you gotta have the stash remotely

Away from the family and coke or get smoked

Provoke me, I never let the chocolate choke me

I know what it mean to be broke, B—you joking me?

That shit is over like those leather front pullovers

Them Gucci hats and them hot rod Chevy Novas

Give me a chauffeur, a 20-foot leather sofa

Let me chill, I feel the feds getting closer

The toaster, right on the hip where it’s supposed to

Be, ‘til I D-I-E-, la cosa nostra

What, nigga

Nigga, what; nigga, what; nigga, what

Nigga, what; nigga, what; nigga, what