| The microphone molester, machete undresser
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| «Stupid-dope-fresh» type shit resurrector
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| Top gun, miramar, best-of-the-best-er
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| The leave-an-MC-peace-in-rest-er
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| The skill tester, the flex-the-gunner
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| The make-funner, the adversary make runner
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| Make summer cold with rhymes I spit
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| Kick gift to lifted delinquent wit
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| I be prophet, my hand—top it? |
| Stop it
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| Fly like rocket when I rock it
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| Lock it down with this perverse verse
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| Every fucking curse, a burst of hurt
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| Move crowds; |
| physical fitness rhymes
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| Coke heads couldn’t do my lines
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| I’m decorated like Christmas pines
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| My battalion rocks
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| MC’s become silhouettes of chalk
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| Reading my eyes will say it in many ways
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| Losing my pride will save it in many days
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| Hit the dirt 'cause the words I spit
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| Will do more than just rip your shirt
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| I’ll bitch slap your soul, contact the track control
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| You’re coming at me? |
| You can’t hack it, though
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| So ridiculous, watching my crew get sick of this
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| Wickedness, pitching this
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| Lyrical viciousness to crews and cliques
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| Made of men and mistresses
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| This is my life, the twilight in the fight night
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| And trying to see nothing but the highlights
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| When I write these eyes on horizons
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| Die for my song, cry rhymes in krylon
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| Fire on, move men telekinetically
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| Esoterically beat-speaking with clarity
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| Feel my verity, heroism of heresy
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| And sever every MC I see with severity
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| Reading my eyes will say it in many ways
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| Losing my pride will save it in many days
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| Why not, what I came
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| Why not, what I came
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| Why not, what I came
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| Why not give me what I came to deserve?
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| Why not give me what I came to believe?
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| Why not give me what I came to deserve?
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| Why not give me what I came to believe?
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| Why?
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| Reading my eyes will say it in many ways
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| Losing my pride will save it in many days |