| It’s been theatres, dusty barns and auditoriums
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| Poetry slams, older gods smokin' opium
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| Testaments since destiny took the best of them
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| Zig zag among thoughts hooked to instruments
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| Tryn' to pay visions to perfection
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| Soundwaves of slaves and criminal perceptions
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| To bad the accessories on tablets of memory
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| With mind states that lasted in treasuries
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| A magnet to felonies
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| We chop butter, ski masks, fatigues and box-cutters
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| Glas stutter throughout gutters ‘n' hallways
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| Woman cry ‘cause their kids 're stargazed
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| I won’t blame ‘em, since I’m doin' the same thing
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| Goin' through the same pain with thrusts to maintain
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| Many close calls labeled a myth, a ghostdog
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| Don’t know better so I stick to old odds, like a movie
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| With mad signals and uzis
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| Desperados who tote pistols with beauty
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| The hustle, rascals get their caked doubled
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| Sellin' me a amount of pounds the jades smuggled
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| With helicopters, jet-ski and space shuttles
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| Now they been recruitin' engaged couples
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| Camouflaged to play walls then chase trouble
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| Those who disagree will get their face scruffled
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| Clap your hands (clap your hands now)
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| Clap your hands, the hands you clap
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| Clap your hands (clap your hands)
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| Clap your hands everybody!
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| Picture the attica blues, cinematical moods
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| My literature’s beyond mathematical jewels
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| They say Ali spits the most radical views
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| But I cock back the mack ‘n' happen to snooze
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| Pacin' crews put on their travellin shoes
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| They chose the right path of what many refuse
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| Actors and fools’re goin' get dramatically bruised
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| Plus their whole entourage get slapped on the news
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| Brinin' the ruckus I stomp on their miniature puppets
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| Watch Iman put on their finishin' touches
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| While ya lost on the course pursue image of others
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| I represent the seeds ‘n' underprivileged mothers, sisters & brothers
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| Frames visibly scarred, you go ahead
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| With your bad sufferin' mystery god
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| Vicious bars, read this, murders i wrote for burglars to quote
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| I’m verbally dope ask anyone they will confirm
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| I’m mad deep on anything between a ballad or fast beat
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| Take your tongue out of those A&R ass-cheeks
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| Or you end up like your white caps tapes on trash-heaps
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| Clap your hands (clap your hands now)
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| Clap your hands, the hands you clap
|
| Clap your hands (clap your hands)
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| Clap your hands everybody!
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| Mastered the technique to speak over tracks we freakin'
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| Still catchin' more flak than blacks and Puerto Ricans
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| It sorta deepens, my heartbeat weakens
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| We not reachin' these kids. |
| They ignore the preachin'
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| For more reasons, absorb the teachings
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| And leave your mind open to change like four seasons
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| The beats bang like whores out skeezin'
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| State of teh Art III is more than crowd pleasin'. |
| WORD!
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| And now we got you fiendin' for more
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| After the show began niggas ran like Gore
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| Sizzerhand for sure, spins ‘til his fingers is raw
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| He loves it when you bring us applause
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| So clap your hands ya’ll, get with the program
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| The mellow vibes reminiscent of a slow jam
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| It’s worldwide felt even by my old man
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| The magnetic attraction that you got open
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| Clap your hands (clap your hands now)
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| Clap your hands, the hands you clap
|
| Clap your hands (clap your hands)
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| Clap your hands everybody! |