Who the hell teaches you Kung Fu?
Yeah.
You don't know a thing.
Your master must be an ignorant idiot as well.
Yeah.
The moral of the song is pressure.
The rise of a hip-hop mongol.
Step in your chest like the Damocles suit.
Bloody Christian, Lepore, and Lizards in blue.
Swim gun, millions in the briefcase.
Staten Island, nigga.
Barry Blue.
Yeah.
Swahando.
Mob gang, Team Lambo.
Yeah.
Move around in this jungle like Rambo.
Yeah.
Gremlin, nigga.
No gizmo.
Yeah.
Spending at escrow.
Gumpo.
S-Chavs.
Diverse.
Capadonna.
Ingredients.
Health flow.
Why these industry niggas colorful as rainbows?
No hoes barred.
Guns big enough to paralyze a buffalo.
NYC Commando that'll strangle the tempo.
Wu-Tang.
Make the poyo better like cilantro.
Mr. Cho. I suppose you want to be my student.
Yes. I'm Sung Ye-Ting.
I pledged myself to learn Kung Fu.
But I know I'm still ignorant.
I've a long way to go.
I've been looking for a teacher without success.
But I heard you're an expert.
So I have come to test you out.
Test me.
Smelling that murder.
Hot off a block that you might have heard of.
Warrior,
Excalibur,
gun grip,
skin alligator,
creator.
To this heavy metal, I'm no stranger.
I own the restaurant, nigga.
You a waiter.
I slaughter.
Murder gang translator.
My music make niggas shoot at the police like Vibes Cartel.
Still get the A-balls from Noel.
I excel.
They all fell.
Young Melly Mel.
Get rich or die trying, Levo.
I'm spitting that temperature, 89.1, Bobbito.
I thought you wanted to be my student.
I want to have the best teacher.
But you can't beat me at Kung Fu.
How can I ever expect to learn anything from you?
All right.
You've got guts.
And you're smart.
And if you do beat me,
feel free to use this stick to beat me
for my insolence.
And I promise you my complete loyalty.
All right.
And if you beat me,
I'll not be your teacher.
I'm very grateful.
Are you ready?
I'm ready.
Now.