I get atomic, hypo-galactical... Word to mom, I'm in my own world. Galaxy rays? Powerful.

I wear black while suckers wear pink.

Rhyme to kill, rhyme to murder, rhyme to stomp, Rhyme to ill, rhyme to romp, Rhyme to smack, rhyme to shock, rhyme to roll, Rhyme to destroy anything, toy boy. On the microphone: I'm Poppa Large, big shot on the East Coast.

I call you once...you never dialed back. Twice...you never dialed back. Saturday morning, live, I'm on Soul Train, talkin' to Don Cornelius. Saturday night, my phone rings... Saturday night, I won't answer. Saturday night, my phone rings again... Saturday night, I don't answer.

Shakespeare's gone, don't even think about it.

Think about it, if you was there standing looking at me. What would you do, if I hit your face with dog doo-doo?

Starstruck with one buck, your girl look like Donald Duck.

You need a bad operation. Gimme the scissors, hammer, flame.

They use the simple back and forth, the same, old rhythm That a baby can pick up, and join, right with 'em. But their rhymes are pathetic, they think they copacetic Using nursery terms, at least not poetic...