The People's Champ - R.A. The Rugged Man

Hear ye, hear ye, yah

In this future of hip hop history

I’m here to bring out the people’s champ

R.A.

The Rugged Man

Put your hands up, tell 'em wild out

This is how we do it, we here to turn it out

Put your hands up, tell 'em wild out

This is how we do it, we here to turn it out

Yo, my flow reminiscent of a prime Grand Puba

My tongue sharper than the sword of the Japanese Yakuza

Beats always slamming like Dilla, like Ali was the man in Manilla

Man or gorilla, I’m a nicer striker than Anderson Silva

I’m conquering like Hannibal on the back of an elephant

I’m the best even if I’m pink and pale and I’m lacking in melanin

I’ve been a problem since my first birth date

In the delivery room my dick hit the ground and it caused a earthquake

The school hallways I was pissing in

As a kid I was lacking in discipline

Ignoring authorities and never listening

I come from the slummiest of slum villages, killing evil

You come from a village of disco dancing;

Village People

You other rappers I’m obliterating

My flow is the Michelangelo Sistine Chapel

You ain’t even fingerpainting

Bitch, I’m swinging nunchucks and hitting you dumb fucks

And making you duck down like Ruck and Ruste Juxx

I’m eyeing you fat bitches and seeing which one fucks

I’m making the gun blust, I’m bringing the blood guts

Come on

I get it done for the (people, people)

I’m the champ, I’m the champ of the (people, people)

I bring home the title to the (people, people)

I’m the motherfucking champ of the (people, people)

I’m the motherfucking champ of the (people, people)

This isn’t money and a Grammy and an Academy Award

This a brutal lyrical verbal version of Gatti and Ward

If I bust in your eye, it might blind ya

As a kid I was too hyper, sniffing pancakes syrup from Aunt Jemima

Sip wine with Jesus, tell him I’m in a drunken stuper

Then I slap box God and sumo wrestle with Buddha

I ain’t dumbing it down, I’m murdering and gunning it down

These others artists I’m above them even if I’m under the ground

A rapper with a Maybach or a car that my ass can’t afford

I’ll rip out the windshield and I’ll shit on your dashboard

Don’t make me laugh, young blood newcomer

Your mother was a crackhead, you a crack baby fresh out of the dumpster

Smacking ya, hurt ya, I murk ya, massacre mass murder

Blasting your ass, stashing the burner, the trash lurker

I’m worser than Rambo in Bhurma

I’m dumb in the head, I’m not a fast learner

The white boy version of Nat Turner

Come on

Tommy Hearns Marvelous Marvin Hagler with the vernacular

Bullets splattering through your kidney and flying out the back of ya

I’m shining like diamonds in Africa

I’m mathematical, scientifical like Benjamin Banneker

Rowdier than riots in Attica

I got identity issues, it’s self hatred, a pissed off

Wigga acting like I just stepped off of the slaveship

I kill any beat, murder any track

Mutilate the snare, rape the kick-drum and shit on the hi-hat

Come on

I let it rock for the (people, people)

I’m the champ, I’m the champ of the (people, people)

I really live for the (people, people)

I’ll win it all for the (people, people)

That’s what we are, we just (people, people)

I’m the champ, I’m the champ of the (people, people) Annotate