| Pure microphone magic
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| Carving up mc’s, straight up torch their weak embellishments
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| Getting it
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| Put it on
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| Dirty download gigolo with the illest flow
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| Yeah
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| Perverted Monk high chief
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| Life Force moving swiftly
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| Pitch forks steady miss me
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| My renaissance, my brother’s light eclipse me
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| My rough callous feet stomping on these city streets
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| Fuck that turn the other cheek
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| Unless you squeeze a peach
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| No parental advisory, so no need for the bleeps
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| No comin' in my crib unless you wipin' your feet
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| I hit the street, I feel good plus complete
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| A lotta hot rappers ain’t nothing without their beat
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| Mark my name, on the clipboard, I gets raw
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| When I was sixteen, that’s when I used to rip for it
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| Like Jiminy Cricket, hopping over the candle stick
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| Watchin' my ass, and yo I learnt quick
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| I’m nifty, shifty with my dirt, G
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| Doing my thing, put in work, ain’t nothing hurt me
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| I bring it from front to back, white to black
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| Shoe to hat, use clues I’m doin' that
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| Rhyme skills the dopest, the lyrical style I spit is ferocious
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| You feel the beat in the streets and get close to this
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| So while I do my thing, you do your thing
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| Caress the mic like a baby to make your head bang
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| Rhyme skills the dopest, the lyrical style I spit is ferocious
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| Feel the beat in the streets and get close to this
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| So while I do my thing, do your thing
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| Carve my name in your brain, make your head bang
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| Monumental, thoughts flowing sequential
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| The quintessential mental, tapping into
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| My focus, take it round like a rental
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| And if I have to cut you with my gonzo
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| I’m like a warless sword, I’m digging into
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| Like you can joust defence
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| So many strokes and slashes let off
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| You ain’t got not fingerprints
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| Carve you up with my Rambo, ammo
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| Looking like leather-face, trippin' on the dance floor
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| Too much hypocrisy, up in the market, B
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| It ain’t about talent, it’s all about the currency
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| My magna opus, addicted plus the dopest
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| Maybe I’ll write a line and fara canna quote this
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| They got status but can’t work the apparatus
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| How could a project sell millions
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| Talking 'bout millions, when half their buyers ain’t seen a thousand
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| Rhyme skills the dopest, the lyrical style I spit is ferocious
|
| Feel the beat in the streets and get close to this
|
| So while I do my thing, do your thing
|
| Caress the mic like a baby to make your head bang
|
| Rhyme skills the dopest, the lyrical style I spit is ferocious
|
| Feel the beat in the streets and get close to this
|
| So while I do my thing, do your thing
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| Carve my name in your brain, make your head bang
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| Times is kinda critical, that’s why I gotta keep it lyrical
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| Simple and plain, cos I don’t wanna riddle you
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| I’m tryin' to black out, cos I’ll blow your back out
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| Pullin' my axe out, do a M.O.P. |
| mash out
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| With my dreads out, an' I ain’t no type of boy scout
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| Mr Life Force, but you call me The Count
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| Got so many names, that I can’t even count
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| Let’s see: Paisley, 5th Thaing, Mr How, Dr Intergalactic
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| My other names is under the mattress
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| Now you can get your grades pissed on
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| After your body’s been buried
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| From trying to get your diss on
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| Wax off, wax on
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| My calm is bringin' a storm, from the night until the early morn'
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| I got so many styles, forget the grape with wine
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| Life Force on the mic, an' 'bout to put it on
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| Takin' you ass away like I was Kogon
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| Rhyme skills the dopest, the lyrical style I spit is ferocious
|
| Feel the beat in the streets and get close to this
|
| So while I do my thing, do your thing
|
| Caress the mic like a baby to make your head bang
|
| Rhyme skills the dopest, the lyrical style I spit is ferocious
|
| Feel the beat in the streets and get close to this
|
| So while I do my thing, do your thing
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| Carve my name in your brain, make your head bang |