[Intro: Popa Chief]
Pass the payodee, the sun, has dipped
Behind, the mountains, no longer to be seen, let's do this
Come on

[Chorus: Popa Chief]
One little, two little, three little indians
Four little, five little, punk ass indians
Seven little, eight little, nine little indians
They don't want it with Popa Chief, no

[Popa Chief]
I'm hot chocolate without the marshmallow, Brooklyn Zu Goodfella
From all the glitter raps, may be your umbrella
Surround sounds, yo Burnt Biskut, steadily pound you
Leave you jonesing, right, where I found you
Trial and error, I call it like I see it
Nobody does it better than pops, word to mother
One of the best ever, let me stop
Na-na-na-na-nahh, I think not
Shag or rotten, if I ain't planning, I'm plotting
Papers are grotting, haters can't believe how far I've gotten
I love to live, M-Dub first kid
Now I'm all grown, I got kids of my own
Think five times before I ask, stay humble, counterattack
Never retreat, never repeat
Unless it's for the championship...

[Chorus: Popa Chief]
One little, two little, three little indians
Four little, five little, punk ass indians
Seven little, eight little, nine little indians
They don' want it with Popa Chief, no
One little, two little, three little indians
Four little, five little, punk ass indians
Seven little, eight little, nine little indians
They don't really want it with me, no

[Popa Chief]
The manifestation of one's knowledge says it all
I'll take two bean pies and a final call
Read the writing on the wall, it clearly states most of ya'll
Couldn't make a hit, if this was t-ball
I stole from Peter to pay Paul, fistball
Beats I'm on, I'm on the case like Ace, When Nature Call
Back in the game, like Saddam Hussein
Determined like Iron Lung to 'bring the pain'
No time to waste, so I keep my raps laced
I don't want to be another homeboy in outer space
Virtuosity, my steez is low in calories
Raising hell like Mickey and Malorie
Cut off your oxygen, leave your brain hemorging
What I hate worst in this world is lyric hacking
So I'm sacking like a line from Spellman, ain't no telling
How many MC's gon' need metal backing

[Chorus]

[Popa Chief]
I roll with a bunch of bad apples, the rottenest
Rootinest, tooting this, lyrical gun slinging this
Niggas, who found your musical eroginist spot
I pledge allegience to rap and pot
Five Foot, Zu Ninjaz, Buddha Monk and the Manchuz
Ol' Dirt McGirt and the original Brooklyn Zu
Raised to be sharp, I'm loved by the Wu
Sunz of Man, and the Royal Fam to
I campaign with the best of them, crimed with the best of them
Puffed with the best of them, fuck the rest of them
Just to show his pussy is pink, and cotton in heat shrinks
And shit sitting in the sun, stinks
I fuck you up with a lyric like a stiff drink
Quicker than you can blink, quicker than you can think
Wear this ass whooping like a mink in the summertime
The funk I got that's in your clothes, burns your nose

[Chorus 2X]