text: Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Droves of styles older than sharkskin, now commit the barking
  I gather rhymes and load up, cause its a hold-up
  I meditate fast to assassinate a class, a dull sword
  Check the graphics on this rap chalkboard
  Peace to RZA Razor, yo, the niggas major
  Who slice tracks fast like whities with Gillette razors
  And wont stagnate, the ragged Dragon Lee
  Regenerate, clearin the area, air out and ventilate
  See, yo, Im natural, swift like a mackerel shark
  Gat-packable, attackable in this art
  Now watch a beat that makes and shakes and breaks ya
  Ron G makes a million off his name, son
  Ayo, peace to uptown, Shaolin now
  Walk through, child, its wild
  Huh, hit you like this son
  Ron G, 94, takin em to war
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Yo, I got piles and piles of my styles to utilize
  And brutalize niggas who despise cause Im super fly
  There aint a nigga in the game who can tame me
  I flip A&Rs if they try to rearrange me
  So how the fuck do you figure you can hang
  With a nigga whose slang is equipped to pick a niggas brain?
  I come hard to the fullest scar
  From pulling cards, to leaving niggas scarred on the boulevard
  Check my steez, my rep is kept pleased
  Like these biceps that I flex when I crack your knees
  A homicide in the making, you enter the chambers
  And sentenced to death for move-faking
  See mad thoughts fill the mind of a Killa
  Sin is iller than your ordinary blood spiller
  When its time to come into the track
  Im like a maniac, slapping your stack when its all back
  What? 1994, give it to ya raw
  Mix king records, word up
  Thats what Im talkin about
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang
  Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang 
  Easy soundboy, ere watch ya chat
  Allow me to set the party off with the fly rap
  Aye-aye, cap, suckers wanna battle give me mine
  You rhymes wouldnt be fly if you said them on Delta Airline
  Now thisll take a second, Kris has come to bug out
  You waiting for some lovey-dovey, hug me, get the fuck out
  I got the hardest texture, lecture or whatever
  I got to survive G, I aint no saint
  I do graffiti art, but like Martins home decorating center
  I aint, just, paint, wait, wait
  Wait, wait, let me speak, let me speak
  While Im on this beat your career is looking bleak
  I couldnt understand why you were coming soft and sweet
  But that explains why your rhyming skills are weak
  You need a quicker picker-upper, rip a sucker
  Put my album on toast cause its butter
  You dissing me will never happen slightly
  Thats like Arsenio Hall on TV saying, Kill whitey
  You might be slightly thrown off at my complexity
  Lyrical ecstasy is achieved by standing next to me
  You should of known your career was gonna end
  Should of called Dionne Warwick and her psychic fucking friends
  Now its ended, cant be mended, how splendid
  For wack MCs, I come doctor recommended
  Im hard, Jehovah said Im barred from the Pearly Gates
  Fuck him, I didnt wanna go to heaven anyway
  But my mama got me on my knees with my hands gripped
  Talking bout some Praise the Lord shit
  Hail Mary? Fuck her, I never knew her
  Id probably screw her, and dump her body in the sewer
  Our Father? My pops stuck up dope spots
  Big, black and mean, with the fifth by the gabardines
  What you expected from his next of kin, huh?
  Im loco, bro, but aint no Mexican
  I got nines in the bedroom, Glocks in the kitchen
  A shotty by the shower if ya wanna shoot me while Im shittin
  The lesson from the Smith & Wesson is depressin
  Niggas keep stressin, the same motherfuckin question:
  How many shots does it take to make my heart stop
  And my body start to shake? Ron G, stop the breaks
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Yeah, O.C. representing from Jamaica, Queens like this
  You have now stepped into the realm of a man
  With topics, open your optics, I rhyme for what I stand
  Brace your boxes and stereo decks
  Im here to do more than just collect checks
  So get fixed to the wheel of force, see, Im the Jedi
  When Im in flight it might be like the red eye
  Swift, take a wiff of my vocabulary
  Im wild like berries, I pop it like a cherry
  Ron G composed it, everyone knows it
  Life brings death from guns to roses
  Shoot outs, put doubts of a nigga to a test
  Shit is hex so I just might get a vest
  But what good is a vest if youre aiming for the dome?
  Kick it from a janny-port nickel plated chrome
  Blast you in the face, massacring niggas
  Figuring the referee foes thats bigger
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody
  Clap-Clap your hands everybody