Lyrics EPMD – Underground

Comin’ straight from the underground
Comin’ straight from the underground
Comin’ straight from the underground
Comin’ straight from the underground

As I pump up a brand new funk swing
And bring back the chill of thrill from B.B. King
Old fashioned is the way that I be waxin’ a MC
I bust a grill, and the reaction I check
Inspect, make sure the head’s wrecked
Crunch
snap a neck for some live effects
A machine, my functioning, that’s mean
I stay together, my man, like Al Green
I’m a slayer, the E-R-I-C-K and I’m back
To attack a punk chump that ain’t sayin’ jack
Boom, I’m buckwild when I’m stoned
I close only one eye like a cyclone
So I throw on my black shades that’s rhinestone
Summer to my Benz that’s outlined in chrome
I’m the Grand Royal MC, I’m no joke
I hit like a Phillie Blunt when it’s toked
I smoke, an MC well-done, he gets done
I’m knockin’ out wack MCs like Michael Nunn
Full-power, one punch, crunch, I’m throwin’ bolos
I’m strapped heavy, my handguns that’s solo
I’m packed when it’s time to get down
‘Cause Erick Sermon’s comin’ straight from the Underground

Comin’ straight from the underground
Comin’ straight from the underground
Comin’ straight from the underground

Okie dokie. My mind gets slow-pokey when I toke the
Bull from a Phillie Blunt and I hope me
Old Gold is cold when I pop the cap
Take a sip and then blitz, then crack a back with a rhyme sack
‘Cause I’m too smooth, pay my dues, and can’t lose
I’m Top Gun, pullin’ bitches like Tom Cruise
And my main man, D-Wade, still gets paid
And in the off-season, we vacate in the shade
So all hail the Mary, crack the Moet
Blast the boom-box, then act like George and Jet-son
‘Cause my style, similar to Tae Kwon Do, but hey-yo
I don’t kick or throw stars, this brother flows
To the funk track, with 808 drops for prop the top
Of druggin’ or thuggin’, D.T.s or cops
I say, no to blow and yes to cess and I suggest
You put a buck on Lotto, and if you win, you should invest
In a new grill, Bill, ’cause I rock non — until
The Fat Lady sings, or Brooklyn starts to ill
There’s a fat chance, with the brother bistro
‘Cause I’m the master of the quadraverb and the echo
There’s no time to stop, so P keep on steppin’
On the edge of the frame of the mind, the nine is the weapon
That I choose to squeeze when a brother acts wild
One slug to the head, mafioso style
You catch a Universal beat down with sounds that pound
Watch yourself son, I’m comin’ straight from the underground

Comin’ straight from the underground
Comin’ straight from the underground
…