I'm a black intellect but unrefined
Shaheed push the fader from here to Granada
Listen up everybody, the bottom line
Publishers: JAZZ MERCHANT MUSIC, UNIVERSAL MUSIC - Z TUNES LLC.
'Cuz Queens is the county, Jamaica is the place
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Listen to the fader, Shaheed let's it glide
Oh, my God, oh, my God
We A Tribe Called Quest and we the Midnight Marauders
The answer, big up is who I who
Used to have a crush on Dawn from En Vogue
I like my beats harder than two day old shit
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Take off your boots 'cuz you can't run the race
One for the treble, two for the bass
When's the last time you heard a funky diabetic?
'Cuz we got to do it like this, we aim to please
Timbo's on the toes, I love the way it's goin' down
Do what
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Know a little nigga who can rhyme when you ask me
Queens got it's own and Brooklyn got it's own
My man Big Mo with the streets and Caprice
The Timbo hits with the prints underground
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Licks, licks, licks, boy pon your backside
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Heat in the equator, the brothers in the pot
This is how we do when we keep the wildin' sheets
And when it goes in, honey, just believe the sin
See ya next LP and next CD and next cassette
Like that
I don't know man, I don't know, I don't know
Aiyo, we out 'cuz we the Midnight Marauders
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Go to the record store and get the shit
We work hard
Short, dark, plus his voice is raspy
Even in Santo Domingo, man I gotta Gringo
Brothas find this hard to do but never me
You know my style Tip, now watch me rip this
For those who can't count it goes one, two, three
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Tip the earthly body, heaven's on my side
With precision like a bullet, target bound
My man Al B. sure, he's in effect mode
But just in case I own more condoms than TLC
See, this is how we do when we keep it on and on
Jalick, Jalick ya wind up ya hip
Now when I say the harlot, you know I mean the hot
Yo, we got mics, when do we go?
Licks, licks, licks, boy pon your backside
Tribe Called Quest and we the Midnight Marauders
Mister Energetic, who me, sound pathetic?
Complimentary, The Thief of Poetry
Trainin' gladiator, anti-hesitater
Draftin' of the poets, I'm the number seven pick
Songwriters: Robert Bell, Ronald Bell, George Brown, John Davis, Handy,, Robert Mickens, Ali Muhammad, Gene C Redd, Claydes Smith, Woodrow Sparrow, Malik Taylor, Dennis Thomas, Richard Westfield
Yo, we about to jet
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Down like the lady of the evenin'
Steady eatin' booty MCs like cheese grits
Now the formula is this, me, Tip and Ali
We A Tribe Called Quest and we the Midnight Marauders
Oh, my God, oh, my God
And I care 'bout them booty MCs, my shit be hittin'
It's not like honey dip would wanna get with me
I don't know man, I don't know man
See ya next time 'cuz we the Midnight Marauders
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Oh, my God, oh, my God
Got my man, Big Mo with the streets and the papes
Just livin', like a hooker, the harlot sounds
Some brothas try to dis Malik, you see'm catchin' me
I got a humdinger comin' hook, line and sinker