Fist up, get’em high, right on, when you hear the track you’re like that’s my song – everybody in the place putting work in, ain’t nobody leaving till the dancefloor’s hurting, dj mentos got your frame jerking, son of nun’s on the mic and he’s versed in, how to rock right with the left all night and still slap republicans in broad daylight –damn right that’s how it goes when I’m in it, everybody knows I hit shows and rip it, spit rage for days and leave the stage splitted, free your inner slave and misbehave with it – revolutionary rap club track, freedom fighters raise your fist and lean back, excuse me miss activist can you do with your hips what your lips do with politics? No soul, no movement, no strikes, no fights for your rights no improvement, I got slapped and trapped with the track, yeah I’m into that when the beat is this phat, rhythm be to me what rage be to bill bixby, if he was black and still living in the 60’s – the incredible top of the federal hit list all up in the streets bearing witness, I grab mics with the quickness, spit with the sickness, and whip thick beats into fitness, office thug shit all up in your business, swimming in fit rhythms with the slickness.

Fist up get’em high right on, when you hear the track you’re like that’s my song – everybody in the place putting work in, ain’t nobody leaving till the dance floor’s hurting
Fist up get’em high get’em high if you aint selling out then reach for the sky
Word is Bond that’s my song, let that jam rock all night long.

Revolutionary soul burned to cd, that you can blast when you roll pass the pd, car stereo i.e.d. loaded with a son of nun rpg. Rough intellect getting wreck in the set spitting tough dialect that you’ve come to expect and I bet that you’re gonna leave w/ your shirt wet, calling into work hurt by the son’s set, 1 vet 2 vet 3 vet 4 back from iraq and they’re all against war sir no sir we won’t take it any more now they’re mixing with the people getting nice on the floor. – young America out of character tearing down the clear channel dumb it down barrier – looking for a fix they never find in the mix, why the dj always play the same 6, love, sex, drugs, thugs, nothing bout how the nsa getting phones bugged, they can’t handle it when I dismantle it, 2 turntables and a mic set to damage it, getting people in the streets like ‘damn’ revolutionaries brought they whole fam, all they hubris left’em clueless now throw your fist up and show’em what the truth is, no justice, no sleep, the farmer’s gonna weep when it comes time to reap. Getting big money playboy your time’s up, where them activists, where them unions.

Fist up get’em high right on, when you hear the track you’re like that’s my song – everybody in the place putting work in, ain’t nobody leaving till the dance floor’s hurting
Fist up get’em high get’em high if you aint selling out then reach for the sky
Word is Bond that’s my song, let that jam rock all night long