Make ’em Pay Lyrics - Gang Starr feat. Krumb Snatcha

Krumb Snatcha Moment of Truth cover art
Release information
Release Date: 1998-3-31
Genre: Hip Hop
Style: Jazzy Hip-Hop
length: 4:23
producer: Guru
performer: Krumb Snatcha
keyboard: DJ Premier
co-producer: DJ Premier
membranophone programming: DJ Premier
First and foremost, some rappers are sweet like fructose
When I **** back these lyrics, y'all punks best be ghost
I be the seven, twenty-one, eighteen, twenty-one
The illest one, I'm almost doper than anyone
Straight out the late nights of Bed-Stuy
Steppin' up, y'all put your weapons up, I make heads fly
You're artificial, like saccarhin
You're crazy fake, it's more than skills you be lackin' in
Concepts you bite, 'cause your identity ain't tight
Tryin' to be somethin' you're not, like pullin' a knife at a gunfight
I'm troopin' on night air, like flight number 1-0-6,
And gettin' all up in your ****in' mix
You get me upset, and I got you uptight
'Cause my committee's in your city tonight, a'ight?
We got seventeen million of us, plus two million Indians
That makes nineteen mil, lightin' **** up, like Wild Bill
I be the supreme father, plus the ill kid, with drama
My karma, creates the teflon to pierce your body armor
And make sure you check the ****, before you walk to me, or talk to me
Steppin' to me improperly, you just may catch the weaponry
My specialty is tearin' tracks out the frame
You know my ****in' name, I rule all game
I'm universal, on all planes, what's your claim?

Yo, I be your highness, in slickness, you chumps bear witness
Tremendous tropper, verbal *****, with the fitness
Drop you for your spot with the blazer, then I blast ya
Slice precise, like Benihanas, when I come to bring the dramas
Styles so swift, that you can't peep the God
As your lyrics get buried, six feet deep, in my backyard,
I laugh hard, while your mental, I run through mazes
Dark stages of terror, to shatter your dressing room mirror
Your whole error gets crushed, your whole show gets bumrushed
Too many dumb punks want to enter this rap scene
Kickin' Willie Bobo, but need to be slapped clean
Into oblivion; the true champion always rises
I bring surprises to the chief, plus their advisers
Size me up, and you will find nothing's larger
Catch more wreck on your dome, than a deranged ****in' barber
So what, you made some dough, you best keep on scramblin'
All your vanity, is instantly crushed, when I start handlin'
Demandin' that you pay, for your weak rhyme display
Coast to coast, I break the fakes everyday

I see myself as the black Rap Messiah
Colossal, spreadin' my gospel through electrical wires
Spit fire through speech, so I can reach each and every
Tom, ****, and Jerry, slippin' like petroleum jelly
Too busy in the limelight, can't rhyme tight
I got divine right to bring y'all to light
Somethin' ain't right, to be an MC, you gotta thug
Or to thug you gotta be an MC, this **** is bugged
Show love but few; deal with crew and crew only
And think universal, like Sony
Phony pounds and fake hugs is usually avoided
Give a **** like Pizza Hut, I got to stay Noyd-ed
'Cause that same ***** you trust, could be that same cat
Behind that gat that bust, quiet ya, with the silencer
Keep it hush, ashes to dust, then dust to ashes
Nowadays it's who pull out the fastest, imagine this
Rap **** without this gat ****, or the phony cat
In black, talkin' 'bout how much his Mac spit
But this year, Gang Starr got changes bein' made
No wack **** bein' played, no fake macks gettin' paid
No Versace MC's, with a mouth full of Mo'
Soundin' like a ho, spittin' that old-fashioned show flow
I bombshell that pastel Chanel rap, through a Maxwell
Ever since young Krumb, was taught to rap well
Goin' deep, process of thought, when my eyes closes
Awaken with interpretive robe and sandals, like Moses
Travellin' high sands and Eastern lands, for the answers
Ignorance is spreadin' through the streets, like it was cancer
Too many drinkin' not thinkin', when behind that trigger
A thirty-eight escalate the murder rate, for us *****z
It's like, microphone roulette, 'cause nowadays MC's is gettin' wet
Over someone else's fake gangsta rep

Lyrics licensed by
CD 1
  • 1 You Know My Steez
  • 2 Robbin Hood Theory
  • 3 Work
  • 4 Royalty
  • 5 Above the Clouds
  • 6 JFK 2 LAX
  • 7 Itz a Set Up
  • 8 Moment of Truth
  • 9 B.I. vs Friendship
  • 10 The Militia
  • 11 The Rep Grows Bigga
  • 12 What I’m Here 4
  • 13 She Knowz What She Wantz
  • 14 New York Strait Talk
  • 15 My Advice 2 You
  • 16 Make ’em Pay
  • 17 The Mall
  • 18 Betrayal
  • 19 Next Time
  • 20 In Memory of…