Intro/chorus: repeat 4x      Who you won test, me have a champion style      Verse one:      Meet the mic controller, the philly roller, the wicked one   Sun rude bwoy come rhymes off top the head   Said what I said and did what I did   Never catch another bid, create rubbers and slid   I'm out of there, ghost evaporate vanish   Callate la voca if need be I'm spanish   No habla ingles, police ask questions   I don't know nuttin, ain't nuttin happening, stop stressing   I'm headed down the alleyway   With the smith on my hip, shank in my hand, who's the man   You won test, who me?    I think you better back up and chill, g   Don't make me mad boy, don't even try   Eyah got skills, eyah smoke mad thai   You steppin to a brother who been through it all   My freestyle is wild you nah won test my yes y'all   You think you got flavor to match?    You can get a smack for that, black      Chorus      Verse two:      Nobody can do it   You runnin out of gas sun, leakin much fluid   I'm hungry like jack two inches away from a big mac   Then buck buck buck   Take that witcha on the way down, so you don't feel the ground   When you hit, and your head splits, fuck all that bullshit   It's hectic, respect it, the dialect, I come   Original, the intellect, refuses to tongue twist   So don't tell me naythan   Me have a champion style, hardcore with a taste of jamaican   You steppin to the wrong one the nine is the seed of jesus   I get loose on ninety proof   Fatter than a bubble goose, unpredictable   You never know what I'm going to say after I say   What I say when I say what I say when I play, next? !?    There it is, who you won test      Interlude:      The deceased resented the fact, and told him off in no uncertain terms   He still kept coming, he identified himself, and then drew his revolver      Chorus      Verse three:      Cream of the crop nonstop hip-hop   Funky stuff rough enough to, break up the handcuffs   Scuff a cream puff like an old pair of boots   When the nine millimeter shoots the gift I was born with   Who's that, with the booby trap, poisoning rap   With the wack bullcrap, we can't have that   Shut him down, I'm underground   And if my sound hits the airwaves of pop, it'll still be hip-hop   No samples from barry manilow   Strictly timbo, you know, the whole 40 below   That's how I'm rollin in the nines   Nine-five, nine-six, nine-seven to get mines      Outro:      Yeah I'm sending this out to all you bigmouth   Knucklehead suckers that was talkin all that garbage   I am the man, who you won test, punk?