The West coast is blowin up

The new innovators of style, but there's more to be uncovered

From the undiscovered regions of this sector

Addin to the circulations of monumental demos

This should definitely be stamped sure shot produce

LIKE THIS!

[Verse One]Yo whassup man to the rooftop runners

The one that's with the bass got some puff for your soul

Plus the heavy meditator still jottin down ditties but wait

An equal sum, T-mass in elevational speak

The vocal bloom while my signal was tuned

Dissect, my set level to a hoverous form

Then release, to the ear, while I watch my spirit travel

See the evil dissapear like an atomless math

Through the , which infinity is I

Where my energy is based, see I got a fat sack of space

I toned it down for a recharge of tone

Then I threw it my sack, cause my travels are wild

Plus a power that'll read through a wearer's disguise

Through an MC form I walks, as a normal man

But my estimated time of the regular digestion of a verb

Stems days uncountable to many

As a being from beyond, cuttin wax, as I break the many forms

Through a total mad account for myself

Spittin logic through a relay of words that might burn

Through a century two-ways it's clear to the eyes

Then project, with approximate, greetings that's slow

Calculated to an intricate find, and disembody that

Photo type place whenever rhyme with the one

True original phrase of words flowin with the page that's written

[Verse Two]As I blast, the last dash of my lyrical gas

I pass, a regular MC path, break them before me

How uneasy, to be the MC like B

But you know how we do this when we give U.S.C

Or , it's not me to speak in stutter

My lyrics break fast, like bread and butter

I utter, another style, meanwhile child I profiles

The funky-ass hip-hop makes you wanna break for the mic and freestyle

Uhh, but these styles ain't free

I feel the fatness on this track, the bass frequencies

Take over me, damage ya with my freaky freaky flow

Catch wreck, check ya neck, I come clean in ya speakers bro

Or sis, be you mister or miss

If you need flavor and funk in your life Sugar's what you missed

Uhh, it's not good, not Nutrasweet nor a suplement

A shot of the props, leavin suckers stuck in detriment

UHH!

[Interlude]The West Is.. "Bout to blow the **** up"（Gang Starr《I'm the Man》）

The West Is.. ??

The West Is.. ??

The West Is.. "The place to be"

The West Is.. "down"

"And I'll tell you why in just a moment"

"And now ladies and gentlemen" {*scratched repeatedly*}

[Verse Three]Here's a sure shot take from the ground techniques

Of my speak, blowin from the West

Era ninety-three is how we hit up the sticker

I glance at my ticker, it's time

To blow the text out my throat and get the oohs and ahhs

Of a applause and defeats, it gets my stand

It's how I, learned to be an MC

So take this tape, and put it witcha tape

And love it like ya breaks all smothered in the hiss

And plates of paper, to hold it all up

And I can give a **** about a industry appeal

But watch 'em all steal this style, and blow the **** up

Usin my shit

{*miscellaneous scratches*}

[Verse Four]Right, right, right

Niggas doin all that screamin, but really don't know shit doe

You see, if rap were a tree

Then my knowledge would bear fruits

And if rap ever falls, then I guess I'd be a parachute

If rap was the news

Then me, I'd be the commentary

And if rap were a fine bitch

Then I'd be Halle Berry!

If rap were a three and two pitch

Then I'd be wild

Strikin out MC's, chokin u