| «Poisonous taoist!»
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| «Afu-Ra!»
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| «The body of the life force!»
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| The body of the life force, scientifical street nigga
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| I walk with a limp, no pimp sign, I’m an urban gorilla
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| Rough and rugged, plus I keep it realer than realer
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| Stomp these streets, I’m known as a mic killer
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| With vintage lines, that vintage rhyme
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| Black circles around rap camps, I be the lord of the rhyme
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| Whose the prettiest, baddest mo’fo, know down
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| G-O-D, Blackie Chan, watch me shut it down
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| Incredible, my credit is credibly credible
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| Put hoes up in the track, like heavy metal do
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| Cats act up, I hit 'em with the John Woo
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| Yo, I chop 'em up, hit 'em up, and rip 'em up
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| The Lion King’s in town, boy, it’s murder on the sound boy
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| So line your favorite cottage rappers to sing it
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| Like Keith Murray; |
| my Def Jams, they will get in ya
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| I slice and dice my competition like a ninja
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| Now let me introduce you, to the man, the myth, the mental
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| Influential, bi-centinial, lyrical spiritual material
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| Hittin' you like a literal miracle
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| Settin' fire to the streets, that’s my ritual
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| Fossils of my rap book, left for anthropoligists
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| Show 'em how amazing the jazz, I’m blazing the hooks
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| Heavily heavily, intertwine with the melody
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| Deadly deadly, kill the tracks with my medly
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| Give me that mic fool, you only stuntin' and frontin'
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| Fluffin' and bluffin', and ain’t sayin nothing, stop fronting
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| The way I shoot the gift, I’m sick with this
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| I make crowds flip, I’m a hip hop therapist
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| And you can do the hustle, freak ya body, bounce
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| But I gotta spit fire, so I’m sure to give ya every ounce
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| I’m worth my weight, and gold and all it’s luster
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| Step up in the place (Woo-Hah) like I’m Busta
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| Hold up, wait, the sound’s kinda knocking
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| Dreaded they up in the club, let’s get it poppin'
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| Jolting compositions as if I was a virus
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| One breath to raise the dead, don’t try to ride this
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| And of course, I take it back to the hood
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| Afu riggedy Rasta-hood, raw like a porno is
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| Slim brother, but I dip like a corn fiddle
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| Trey eight, snubnose, type of flow, get a gun, though
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| I’m nasty, as a cannibalist
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| I eat rappers, alive, as if my name was Hannibal, kid
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| Perverted Monk, medicating in the cut
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| Flying guillotine raps, aiyo, I cut shit up
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| Masterin' the art, technique dichotomy
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| Straight up yo, I’m bout to catch a body like Gotti
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| At home in my zone, who feel the ecstasy
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| Explicitly, the lyrical telepathy |