[Intro: Robot Voice]
Mr. Porter has asked me to warn you that this next joint may harm your speakers

[Verse 1: Royce Da 5'9"]
If this ain't real hip hop n***a tell me what it is then
Walking sci-fi cyborg, my image is
Napalm, translation, you tampon bleed
Like the opposite of mankind
Tryna put your hands on my damn rod
You might as well handstand on a land mine
If I ain't bout that, let adversity hurt me
Like if I ain't bounce back, all I do is count stacks
You can't put me and flames in the same quote
Beast on the track, me and Usain Bolt in the same boat
Mention me and lightning in the same volt
Crqckers amphibian, I'm a handful
Guns give you suntans like a Pakistan Indian, pop shit
Quick enough to snatch a fly out the air with some fuckin' chopsticks, uh-uh-uh
N***a, who hotter than me?
I'm on a million dollar-AK-hollering spree (Nickel!)

[Verse 2: Black Milk]
If this ain't raw shit, then n***a, I'm lost in the game
And that means everyone remains comin' with that soft shit
This is that dark flow, caught up in the alley walking
Like "Losing Out Pt. 2" without Alan Parsons
Take precaution, the percussion is danger
These n***as feelin' anger, like ever since we came up, ugh
My circle always come prepared
While other cats is like a plaid shirt: All I see is a bunch of squares
Have a bunch of Leers out in London on stage
Watching hands to the ceiling while rocking in front of fans
Yeah, we so in here, so advanced, so far into the future
Copping grands, these n***as won't comprehend
This game looks wide open in my eyes
So, of course, I took it and ran with it like a baton, ch-ch
And passed it to my fam, the legacy lives on
Fuck being a hundred deep, we're trying to be a mil' strong
[Verse 3: Elzhi]
If this ain't hip hop, like Dickies and flip-flops
Or Phillies and Timbos, the Willies with trimmed fros
Ya'll silly as bimbos and hillbillies, still illy with them flows
My skill really shine like gemstones
In Beverly Hills, feel me?
New sheriff in town, the flair with the sounds
Since rap was lost in the mainstream, but who care if it drowns?
My brain scheme is complex like the magazine
Swagger's mean like gan-related rags and jeans
Tag a scene, smack machines, make the maggots lean
I drag machines like blunts from outta bags of green
On Dud's stash! So playa I pull the stud's math
Those in power get golden showers and bloodbaths
In shitstorms, I spit thorns and pierce through
The nearest crew, who never knew I was fierce, but
Fear is true with the clearest view
They grim and hate, and imitate what they hear us doin'
Immolate, I'll demonstrate how their spear flew
To higher ground and came down like a parachute
For fucking with me, Royce, Black, and June
We'll lay you on your back in the black lagoon

[Outro: Royce Da 5'9"]
If this ain't real hip-hop
What the fuck is it then?