[Intro: Styles P]
B.E.T., get your recorders
You are rockin' with the Ghost, Papoose and Lupe the skateboarder
Welcome to the cypher, the beginnin' of rap
Before record deals, first I'ma toss it to Pap'

[Verse 1: Papoose]
Over one hundred soldiers died this month; I drop info
Out of a hundred, the majority was negroes
George Bush is on a roll like a round hero
They still findin' human remains at Ground Zero
They found 'em in the sewers, yeah, it shows, aw, man yo
I guess that's why they call it a manhole
When we say B.E.T, we ain't tryna spell bet
Black Entertainment, Papoose is the best
Nacirema, wait 'til my album drop
He hop up, I clap him in his hip, you can call it hip-hop
Rappers be actin' like they tougher than they really is
So I sit 'em in wheelchairs like Jada Pinkett kids
You was puttin' your sneakers on the wrong feet
When Papoose was reppin' for the streets, magnifique
You might as well face your defeat, look, partner
I had you lookin' at defeat like a foot doctor

[Verse 2: Lupe Fiasco]
Uh
They say the game has the belly of a beast
Blunts for fingers and hollow tips for teeth
Wiretaps for ears; Nike Airs for feet
Blasphemy for prayers; the system for a heart
Rap music for beats; heroin for the son
And he's married to the streets; crack pipes for lungs
And he never sleeps, just spies with dice in his eyes
Love life, 'cause he like when it dies
With baking soda soul he cough up pleasure
Clothes made out of dollar bills that he sewed together
He knows he's clever, jail is his house
All the liquor that pours out and goes right in his mouth
Rides around on a stray bullet with prostitutes
Pimps, dope dealers and killers tied to it to pull it
TV in his head, strippers slide down his legs
And he known to ride around with the Feds
He's out there, out there, out there, out there, out there, son
[Verse 3: Styles P]
Don't call me Ghost no more, call me The Phantom
Real brothers love him, street brothers understand him
This is for the man with his hand on his Cannon
Right at this moment, I know we need atonement
But Malcolm is dead, and Martin is dead
The gun is the barber, let me know who want a part in their head
And I'm back to the clip, filled the top, ill grill with a bop
Police comin' through, kids steal a rock
I don't give an F like I wanna die cause I'm gon' die
You too, figure, don't boo who, figure
Wanna play the game, find out whose who, figure
After you do that, find out whose true, figure
Lot of brothers died over BS, nonsense
School of hard-knocks, no parent teacher conference
Gotta learn the rules real fast, move fast
Stand up and mash or they know that you ass

[Outro: Styles P, Papoose]
Yeah, yeah
Before there was radio, before there were videos
Before there were magazines, point the cameras down
This what it was the cypher
Three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, the cypher
Show y'all cats how to rhyme, man