Celph Titled was forever a G for taking those disses, pressing them up on wax, selling them, and talking shyt right at the beginning 
I remember this. There was pictures and everything. Copy had brass knuckles and still lost? I remember Camu taking a pic smiling right after the incident.
And I'm not sure how this slipped under the radar, but that first verse on Get Busy on Port Authority 1 addressed the situation
Ladies and gentlemen, you ain't gotta stay in your element
My staff chuckles while brass knuckles scraping your melanin
You claiming it was an accident, pay me a settlement
You saying you wasn't having it, I gave it, you yelling, "Quit!"
Oh, it's on the low though? I stuff cigars with stuff from jars
Above the stars, M.P., they ain't heard drums this hard
I shoot my load ten feet and they asking if I ever thought I'd come this far
Look, I knew I'd do it, the question is who was stupid to mess with this
Who was losing a second, this music scooped and the weapon is
To his crew and the message is, "Don't push me"
You're so p*ssy that you're oozing with estrogen
Straightjacket tightened by my psycho ward
And he straight up forgot to lace up my Michael Jordans
I don't write no chorus, my alterego writes those for us
fukk a tree dog, I light whole forests
I've got the flows to toast most approachers
And got the toes so foes don't approach us
Nah, Jakki brought the shotty and a case, check it
Liquor'll make em drop Shells quicker than J Records
And the crowd's mine, I'll out-rhyme your hood
I'm outside with about nine guys, it's good
While you peasants crowd by my foot to rhyme when I’m done
But that's saying they're trying to get outshined like Suge
Look, you pussies either roll eight or one
Trying to jump me but still can't, they hate on son
They'll get their money jacked, see me in the span of a few years
Do shyt till they see me off Jack, Patron, and a few beers
Mixture of Big L, Big Pun, and Biggie
With an attitude like Jigga so if you come and get me
Bring eight people, a spiked bat and a gun to clip me
And if I got you for money wait until I'm drunk to hit me, p*ssy
Matter fact, you ain't even a p*ssy
You're what bleeds when the summer's eve cleaning the p*ssy
C.O.P. you freestyle to see no fee
I am the C.O. bringing it to you COD
Cash on delivery, and no one can do it better, shyt
I'm the D-O-C with OCD, spit heat like a Creole feast
That's why they be on Pete's dikk to the point I don't see my own feet
Nobody cared though
I remember this. There was pictures and everything. Copy had brass knuckles and still lost? I remember Camu taking a pic smiling right after the incident.
And I'm not sure how this slipped under the radar, but that first verse on Get Busy on Port Authority 1 addressed the situation
Ladies and gentlemen, you ain't gotta stay in your element
My staff chuckles while brass knuckles scraping your melanin
You claiming it was an accident, pay me a settlement
You saying you wasn't having it, I gave it, you yelling, "Quit!"
Oh, it's on the low though? I stuff cigars with stuff from jars
Above the stars, M.P., they ain't heard drums this hard
I shoot my load ten feet and they asking if I ever thought I'd come this far
Look, I knew I'd do it, the question is who was stupid to mess with this
Who was losing a second, this music scooped and the weapon is
To his crew and the message is, "Don't push me"
You're so p*ssy that you're oozing with estrogen
Straightjacket tightened by my psycho ward
And he straight up forgot to lace up my Michael Jordans
I don't write no chorus, my alterego writes those for us
fukk a tree dog, I light whole forests
I've got the flows to toast most approachers
And got the toes so foes don't approach us
Nah, Jakki brought the shotty and a case, check it
Liquor'll make em drop Shells quicker than J Records
And the crowd's mine, I'll out-rhyme your hood
I'm outside with about nine guys, it's good
While you peasants crowd by my foot to rhyme when I’m done
But that's saying they're trying to get outshined like Suge
Look, you pussies either roll eight or one
Trying to jump me but still can't, they hate on son
They'll get their money jacked, see me in the span of a few years
Do shyt till they see me off Jack, Patron, and a few beers
Mixture of Big L, Big Pun, and Biggie
With an attitude like Jigga so if you come and get me
Bring eight people, a spiked bat and a gun to clip me
And if I got you for money wait until I'm drunk to hit me, p*ssy
Matter fact, you ain't even a p*ssy
You're what bleeds when the summer's eve cleaning the p*ssy
C.O.P. you freestyle to see no fee
I am the C.O. bringing it to you COD
Cash on delivery, and no one can do it better, shyt
I'm the D-O-C with OCD, spit heat like a Creole feast
That's why they be on Pete's dikk to the point I don't see my own feet
Nobody cared though
this was my shyt 15 years ago...
@ El-p mad at what happened in the 94 Finals