| Before the Greeks and the creeks, before you could stand
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| Before your hands from your feet, from a band or a beat
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| We would stand on the street, with our hand on our heat
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| Twelve grams, twelve feet away, balled up in a sheet
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| Of Reynold’s wrap, one smack, leaves your dentals back
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| Your voice get quiet like the voice in the instrumental track
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| Slick from the lip lisp, son, sip the citrus
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| My voice unfolds, with the soul of The Whispers
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| On the block, we rock loud like The Pistols
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| Up in the crib, my wiz drinkin' a Harvey’s Bristol
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| Natural flavor, yours be artificial
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| I blow holes in skin, like big nose through snotty tissue
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| They go berserk, when the dollar dollar bill is on
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| The thrill is gone… upgrade to the silicone
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| That’s worth the four billion, eight hundred milli-on
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| It’s not official until I smack the W, silly on
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| From the valleys of Ohio, to the sands of Cairo
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| Still hit like the whirlwind kick of Ryu
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| Zig-Zag-Zig Allah, still puzzled like the jigsaw
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| You renege, you get jigged, pa
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| Pete Rock exclusive
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| We bogard the road, like trucks on the turnpike
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| Smoke by the load, just to see what it burns like
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| Architectural design, intellectual rhyme
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| The bishop strike, movin' on a diagonal line
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| The rook’s trapped, scholars they want the books back
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| The piece, they turn us off, the moment they look back
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| The castling position, made weak by a wing pawn
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| Knights lose armor from the pressure we bring on
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| They fired all these shots in the rhymes with mad flares
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| Kept a cramped game, many posted on bad squares
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| The king’s the kick, the queen’s the snare
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| The bass are minor pieces that move in a pair
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| Quick to break through; |
| an unparalleled opponent
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| I do it on the regular, at any given moment
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| Check the venue, those who make the saga continue
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| Before you check the credits, the swords is all in you
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| It’s real… it’s real… it’s real… it’s real… |