A-yo, I'm the type of brother

That don't like to hear the same thing over and over

So I don't listen to the radio

I go beat shopping with my brothers or my lady, yo

They take me to the spots, so I can dig

Come home with the fat stack and dig

Instead of playing sports, I'd rather dig (Fuck that football shit)

Call my **** Kan Kick to see if he got this shit

Yo, you heard that Cal Tjader? (Yeah, yeah, that's that shit!)

We be sprung off them loops like brothers play hoops

Playing old static loop tapes for Lex, Jeeps, Bizzers, and Coupes

Keep sampling wack while I dig up the raw core

Aiyyo, I'm out, I gotta go the record store

Peace!

Damn, what time is it?

Tryin' to think, should I hit up that T.O. spot, hit that L.A...

Damn... next week we're going to the Bay, so...

Aye, there go Med – aye, aye, Med!

(Yeah is that Madlib?) Aye, cat!

(Aye, what's up, Madlib?) Sup (Wussup!)

About three blunts... shit...

Blaze this for all y'all

By all means necessary, raw, no holds barred

Spit at y'all, sixteen bars of war for who you sleeping on

Emcees acting hard, nutting up to catch blue balls

Stomp before you pawn the dark paws when I drop dogs

Landing multiples, no charge when beef starts

Med ends it with a verse that snaps you retards

You fall off, 'cause no heart

California mindstate, I regulate

Rhyme penetrate right through your chest plate

Checkmate fate for your demo tape in yellow tape

With one trace – Med the master race throughout the Tri-State

On a daily base, stay laced with a verse to rock the universe

A skirt, blowing up and won't burst

There's lessons to be learnt

When I'm on fire, you stay concerned

'Cause I'm eager to burn biters for the chips as they earn

That's my word, drink, smoke a pound of herb, heard

And swerve my way to learn

805 ways to get served with words

Finally here

Hmm, what should I get? Mad selections...

Damn... that 1969 Axelrod (Damn!)

Steve Kuhn... you know that got some Fender Rhodes on it

Oh shit, I ain't seen that Roy Ayers... (Ohh) 1968, good year, good year...

What about that Bug Out shit? Nah...

Ornette Coleman (Ornette? I ain't wastin' my money)

Aye, can you hold my record? I'll be right back

'Bout to go hit this weed

Damn... man, they got mad shit

Man, it's cold as fuck out here (True, true)

Light that shit...

Two hits and pass... two hits and pass, man, what the fuck?!

Steppin' back in this piece, man... I'll be back

Ever since I was young, digging in my Pop's stack

Sampling off cassettes, 33s, 45s and 8-tracks

Rare wax, a true loop digga's attraction

Always spend a fraction of my check on fat jams

Second hand stores get rushed like area wars

You could always catch me digging at your local record stores

For the raw, buying vinyl until my final

Days, blow away pay, various ways to connect

Fat loops, put mics in check

Turn the SP on and commence to dissect (True... true)

Bust a vest in your rest, 'cause you're fake, ****

So how many y'all **** know about crate digging?

"Madlib!"

"With the beats that be thorough"

"'Bout to give it to you 24/7" "7..."

"Put it through the SP, then stretch it..."

("Then stretch it..." "Then stretch it..." "Then stretch it...")