[Intro: King Just]
I do this for practice
The pre-season, a scrimmage, check it

[Chorus: ? (King Just)]
Can we rock? (What it take for me to be hot)
Why not? (They won't let a brother get a spot)
Is he hot? (You better check, and watch him blow the spot)
Give him props (You know this hip hop don't stop)
(If you hot, then you not, if you got, what I got
If you hot, then you not, if you got, what I got)

[King Just]
Alright, hut one, hut two, missiles back at you
The strongarm of the block, is here back to muscle
Hustle, you think these rap niggas yo can touch Who
Not true, we the ones screaming "Who You"
Get your best crew, cuz I'm bout to show you what the vest do
Stress you, test who, oh God bless you
Guess who, back out, here to blow your back out
Coming through the lane, stacking chips like a stackhouse
Carlos built a crackhouse, Goldie pulled the mack out
And anybody that else that ain' with it, sure is assed out
I'm coming back, have 'em Xerox'ed and Memorex'ed
But not really though, they ain't really catch the style yet
On my dialect, must of caught my shit off the internet
Been a vet, yo, you small time like gigapets
My intellect, can catch a ball like an intercept
When I bet, when I rain, shit'll get wet
Catch wreck on your mark, get set, jet
Should of went right when you went left
Think I'mma quit, nigga, hold your breath

[Chorus]

[King Just]
I've been tested by many, go through any
With more 'harder ways' these days, to save 'penny's'
Nasty like Henny, Hill, sharpen your skills, you no frills
And I'm so sick, that I'm ill
Yo where's Park Hill at? I've seen it on the map
When we was 52 states, and back, ease back
The Harter Carter, five starter, point guarder, right hand man
To the Godfather is hotter than lava
Continuing the saga, with more drama
To being the man slash dot comma, New York rap bomber
Armored king with no armor, with thoughts just like the Donna
With a chick, with the hips the size of fucking ramma
Dancehall slay, I all just call when it's time to brawl
And I be there giving you my all
Twenty four seven, it's how they all get done
God bless I'm heaven sent like I'm Reverend Run
They holding the gun, but I got aim, where's the frame
Warrior's Drum, and I ain't got to say no names

[Chorus]

[King Just]
Yo I broke ground, held down, battle of the beats, now
Full nights, five mics, new heavyweight crown
Show up, show down, one of us leave town
Beat down, either cuz you shit where you eat now
See how, I put it together, so clever, with no error
The nicest nigga I know be looking at me in the mirror
He telling me I'm the epitome, of the industry
And everybody else'll be a fucking memory
For centuries, me and my kind existed
Off the hook, like a phonebook bitch, we not listed
Gifted, stay lifted, I went from niggas saying "Who dat?"
To be like "Yo, that nigga ripped it"
You missed it, if you didn't go cop the Mystics
If hip hop was the block, ya'll niggas be sellin Bisquiks
This shit'll have you out your shoes and socks
Pulling out two's and glocks, busting shots, cuz that nigga hot
Give 'em props, give 'em applause, give him awards
Give him a blunt and a stub when he out on tour
Smash him in the door, don't let him off the sixth floor
Just, they can't take it, son, nah, I got to give 'em some more

[Chorus]

[Outro: King Just]
2G, the scrimmage, baby
Word up, rookie of the year
Mr. Choke Armstrong, and I'm out of here