| Hip-hop do that body-rock
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| Jam on and keep smokin
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| Hip-hop do that body rock
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| I’ve been gone for a while but I’m still in style
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| Yea, come on now get on down
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| Can-I-Bus, back with the hip-hop sound
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| Twenty years deep in this culture, compulsive
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| Every day, this was the dream that I wrote with
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| Outside chillin, b-boys spinnin
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| Pretending not to notice the supreme choice women
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| I rep the rude boy, not the dread posse
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| I a bugsy ride with zombies behind me
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| Turns the lighs up, pick the mic up
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| Get 'em hyped up lookin for the right cut
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| I don’t write much, but I love to bust
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| At the crowd 'cause they love the rush
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| The mark is on my arm, was drawn
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| To symbolize the art of hip-hop in its rawest form
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| We could take it to the stage like we goin to war
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| Both fallin through the crowd, we perform on tour
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| Come correct with the rhyme, they remember the flow
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| I was «Gone Til November"six Decembers ago
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| Every day is a piece of enernity to weed control
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| That’s why rap music feeds the soul
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| DJ drop needle, I shock people
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| There’s mic doc in the house and he’s not legal
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| Canibis just entered the building yo
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| If you lookin for the illest, start filming yo
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| I get a call, slide to Diego
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| Hit the bay off with something less than a day old
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| Here’s a hot one for you to hold
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| The super MC, Superbowl, winner takes all
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| The Fahrenheit, nine eleven, rhyme weapon
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| The underground give me credit when I’m sound checkin
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| I feel like it’s now or never, the rhyme state clever
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| When the wisdom teeth grind together
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| (Go to sleep) I cant go to sleep unless I write something
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| (Then stay awake) I can’t stay awake unless I recite something
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| I can’t recite something without tight substance
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| When I bust and I leave mothafuckin mics busted |