Slap Them Up Lyrics - Krs One

Tellin' it like it is, right about now D.J. Premier is in the 

motherfuckin' house and shit, ya know what I'm sayin'? But yo, 

yo Kris, run that shit, ya know what I'm sayin'? That, that shit, 

my joint. Run that motherfucker, it's only right kid 

(Do it, do it, do it) 

Drop that bassline 

You want lyrics? We give ya lyrics. Check it out now, one time 

(Do it, do it, do it) 

When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! 

Gal! Will ya come slap dem up 

When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! 

Ill Will, slap dem up 

MC's get ate, get broken like a pretzel 

and get dissed if they ever try to step to 

They can't take a MC with loose lips 

Talk a lotta shit [but sink no motherfuckin' ships] 

Lyrics make bigger holes than hollow tips 

Watch another rapper body get stiff 

Just like in church, we pass the basket 

as I preach over his casket 

Fuck it, kick the body right over 

and say "See ya, hmm, nice to know ya" 

Got another rapper to see 

Yo Kris, bust that ass [certainly] 

If you're shiverin' get off the pot 

Let the original rapper rock the spot 

You stand there and jock, goin' [mumbles] 

This is absolutely ludicrous, what can you do to Kris 

Chattin' foolishness, step along quick with that stupidness 

It's me rippin' this for self, where else ya lookin'? 

I got more rhymes than all the Jamaicans in Brooklyn 

So beat it or be seated, Gee I'm mad undefeated 

Young boy, you can't see me, run along and make pee-pee 

I was rockin' rhymes when "La-Di-Da-Di" was a demo 

Admit you been on my tip for years and just can't seem to let go 

Go, go call your mother, tell her you want to battle KRS quick 

I bet the minute you get home you'll get your ass whipped 

Crazy ill mad styles is what I give 'em 

Not a run-of-the-mill 'em, I drill 'em, I got ridiculous rhythm 

None of my styles you can get with 'em 

Still um, will um, your crew come get some so I can kill 'em 

Well I roll by myself but don't let it fool ya 

If I got beef my crew'll damn step to ya 

We don't play no games, I'll come straight to your rest 

Lift up your shirt and blast you in your chest 

[Well that was fresh] 

A fad doesn't fill the bill, but mad skills will 

Don't let me have to kill you kid, god forbid still 

Greed will lead your need to succeed 

but your speed, your speech 

Your outreach is a breach of what I teach 

For lyrical styles you're a leech 

If I was Spanish I'd say, ["You lie like a beech"] 

Wow-wow-wow-wow, wow-wow-wow, wow-wow-wow... 

Wow, for a amateur you really looked hard 

But you're really a bitch, when you get it together 

call me, here's my card 

Check the list: you lack breath control, mental behavior 

Lyrical talent, imagination and flavor 

I got no time for amateur rhyme, you could be hurt 

Thinkin' you're hard because you wear a gangsta T-Shirt 

I'll smash your want to-be ass in the deep dirt 

Black, you'll come up dizzy sayin' "How da fuck he do dat?" 

'cause you're yappin' like you can't be reached 

If your name ain't Arrested Development, well save your speech 

Time to ill, I got mad skills to fill 

Not a fake, I got more styles than Drake's got Tasty Cakes 

Gotta be the best Gee, don't try to test me 

You'll get jacked son, even if your name is not Jesse 

Let's be up front when I meet ya 

Peace, uh, I'm the motherfuckin' teacher 

When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! 

Gal! Will ya come slap dem up 

When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! 

Gal! Will ya come slap dem up, up, up, up, up 

(Do it, do it, do it) 

(Do it, do it, do it) 

Yo, South Bronx, South South Bronx 

South Bronx, South South, yo, Uptown 

Brooklyn's in the house, lemme tell ya 'bout Staten Island 

What about, Queens?