Are you, my judge?

               It's just... you should be punished
               I'm going to chop off your arm, so are you ready?

               Verse One: U-God

               Yo, yeah, yo, yo
               Yo, yeh
               Check these high hats sting things moving through the rubbish
               Party robust, rec room style for you brothers
               Time's ticking, eruptments conduct
               Entering one funk before the drum dry up
               Dial, style, jab vocab slow
               Alphabet run, construction voice might blow
               Tap dance swelling Hemingway novel model
               For a breather, dirty reefer hide your bottle
               Cut down, come with something that's round and profound
               Blood brothers people of colors we get down
               Watch this fly, force feed things being said
               Nine Diagram acid black evil red left his
               mic half a dangle, seriouser man
               My mic clapper def wish, everlasting plan
               heavenly God body, know me as the cleaner
               Night champion, old villain style seem a
               kiss of spider, to God saga why bother
               Godfather talk drama, fly swatters

                    Number two, Chao San Poi

               Verse Two: The Genius/GZA

               This Wu shit be hard to kill off full blown
               Rhymes filtered through the net before words hit the chrome
               Pro tools editing tracks that's rough
               Cause a jam without a live MC isn't enough
               So we attack this, and grab all within reach
               Throw a scrap back to niggaz - perfect your own speech
               Shit is copper, it ain't worth the mic stands
               used by backup singers in Atlantic City bands
               Niggaz look on, and get hooked on this mic line
               Real thin and shift through the pipeline
               LP's delivered with style and potential
               Niggaz flowin smoothly in a sequential
               order, revealin hidden tape recorders
               Stashed inside pockets of those who lack aura

               Verse Three: Raekwon the Chef

               Twist the DAC up, them niggaz with math is back up
               Watch he act up, fifty-two block track we slap up
               Playground maneuver, jet to Vancouver like this
               Two Kahluas one chick she's German Luger
               Get the shit on, light a fresh pack, bust it open
               with the seal on Dunn, deal on this, with the real on
               Next, Rocky, ring, call it to Decatur
               Slang soufleer home decorater, player
               Mic immigrants, nine of us formed resemblance
               Somethin flashy, God dead-armed is nasty
               Peep the ornaments enough to make Shorty-Wop stare at me yo
               He killed the God might as well throw a chair at me

               Verse Four: Prince Rakeem/RZA

               Yo MC's wonder what's hip-hop thunder
               Tell you the truth it's just one nation under a groove
               Gettin down for the funk of it
               Like Fred Sanford in the biz...
               Yo one held his paraphenalia, a Wu memorabilia
               Melba the fortune teller, tried to tell ya
               bout the group recruit we scoop up CREAM like Breyer's
               Then spread across the globe like telephone wires
               Thirty-six assorted, Shaolin imported
               chambers been recorded, you're fuckin with the loops
               Time for royalty audit
               Fabulous establishment metabolism, Blackfoot Indian
               Cherokee started out smaller than amphibian
               Then grew to a physical body with five meridians
               As the pendulum swings closer to the millenium
               two thousand, wickedness is spread amongst my citizen
               I got a muscle the industrial to make a hustle
               and politic with Leo and Russell
               When niggaz is still rushin we'll brush you

                    He's a womanizer, but he's an expert at throwing knives

               Verse Five: Masta Killa

               Thoughts are contained in the trenches of the brain
               ignite, blowin the mic to Arabian heights
               As I recite this medley, niggaz couldn't fuck with the
               deadly ground I hold down
               Classical gangland style, shots hit the ceiling
               Panic and confusion echoes through the building
               Continuing to build, I strive for perfection
               Driven by the will to live, glocks I hold
               Shots I give, while searchers of rescue teams
               look for means of survival and who's liable
               for this harrowing experience
               You scream for the extreme, fiend for the cap
               and proceeds of the Wu-Tang Academy
               To fuck up your anatomy with assault and battery

                    Number two, Chao San Poi
                    Number two, Chao San Poi
                    He's a womanizer, but he's an expert at throwing knives

                    Number one, Yen Chang Wa
                    He's an adulterer, don't trust him
                    Number two, Chao San Poi
                    Number two, Chao San Poi
                    He's a womanizer, but he's an expert at throwing knives

               I despise your killing, and raping
               You're... despicable

                    Are you, my judge?

               It's just... you should be punished
               I'm going to chop off your arm, so are you ready?
               I despise your killing, and raping
               You're... despicable

                    Are you, my judge?

               It's just... you should be punished
               I'm going to chop off your arm, so are you ready?