| A nigga run shit like trackmeets, when black meets
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| In the back streets, my gat greets
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| Niggaz that don’t recognize my rap sheet
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| The facts be, the Ruck rains like the weather
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| Cuz Rock makes cops throw glocks down like Heather
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| B., niggaz better be ahead of me Trynna flow steadily, ain’t even on my pedigree
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| That’s my word to Jazz, niggaz is herbs
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| Cuz half of the time, half of they rhymes are absurd
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| I serve, justice, must this, be the answer
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| For my gun to click, terminal like cancer
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| And the answer, Ruck and Rock for a thou'
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| Now how the fuck did you come up with that style?
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| Sing songs with six-packs, that’s when I smoke seven
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| Sacks of cess, make Ruck bust caps at the reverend
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| So chill chicken, before I choose to castize you
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| Battered and baptized, bitches and bums
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| With blood from black eyes, when I slap guys
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| Send that guy to Rockness Monsta
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| Stomp ya, split him in half, divide and conquer
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| I want ya To test the irrational inflictor
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| Rock pounds the ground, while Ruck shakes the Richter
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| It’s the Rock slide, I’m crushin’ya block by suprise
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| It be the Bummy Jab, and the fortune Fab 5
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| Bitch, ah, remarkable, like the Little Rascals
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| If I’m being polite, I’m schemin’like Eddie Haskall
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| Don’t let me gat you, in half to, bring the wrath, too
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| Don’t ask fool, sure, I’ll sell you a new ass crack blew
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| And if you think a nigga’s cocky, I dare any ten of you
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| To come and try and stop me, rock me A champion soldier, Folger, like coffee
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| Tell a wife ya mouth was in yo bitch, back up off me Move on please, cuz sparks get ya done, might provoke
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| The cops or, choke ya pops, if we smoke alot
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| We don’t give a what? |
| Da wiggy, wiggy, wiggy, what?
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| Da wiggy, wiggy, wiggy, wiggy, wiggy --- what?
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| When I flow like the Nile river, that’s when I deliver
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| Nuff slugs to ya chest, makin’ya whole body shiver
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| Niggaz wonder why the irrational God Ruck be slippin'
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| Like I was buried in Rettin with nines that be wettin'
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| Yo section, when niggaz step in my arena, bound to see ya Nigga like Ruck, Buckshot’s, and catch misdemeanor’s
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| I’m similar to none son, that be my stee
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| So flee from ya fuckin’face, double jeopardy
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| All praise me, Rock, I move in hip hop
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| Fools’ll get rocked, if I got the balls
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| To stand when I’m lickin’shots, if not, I got the bright red dots
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| Station, on top of the four-four, to blow ya fuckin’face in, Jason
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| Ain’t half as scary as the derriere
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| Kicker, mister flipster, various to late
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| I hit ya, if you don’t think I make ya block ache
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| The, next time I come through it’ll be you Joe
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| That I break a, snake a, pigskin in the wind
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| Chant my Boot Camp name, and Rock must defend
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| Burn the bitch ass with ten nails, in my military jail
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| Make all that diesel shit you poppin’turn frail
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| What, like I can, I pumps lead into yo body, punk
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| Or a punk pellet, too, I got my pump shotty
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| Why these cats always askin', for shit them not want
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| The jokes you bump, is crippled for months, and don’t front
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| Fuckin’punk --- |