| Oh shit yo, this block party is def
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| Yo they got honeys, they breakin, they deejayin
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| Yo, yo they even freestylin
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| Yo Akir, yo c’mon, yo get 'em!
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| Well sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick
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| Jumpsuits and fly kicks, Kangols with dope knits
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| And of course, the freshest chick to complete, my outfit
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| Cops be buggin out, so we split after we spit our hottest shit
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| My rhyme of reason cause a conflict
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| Shorties catch attention with a blow-pop lick, and turn they bop with a twist
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| Flick and throw the stick, havin me stiff
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| I gotta get but scared to use it cause my parents still riff
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| Music tradition, took knowledge, it cause friction in my livin
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| Black, diction on a GT’s throwin life too easy
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| Front on my bike, like a CB, quarter waters
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| And the folks doin 'ports what my first dude bought
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| Game is a sport, Dominican, handball courts
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| Hold a jiggy in my Jordan cause my day’s too short
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| Steady, holdin our fort, Washington, New York
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| And all my visits is short, I still need the support
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| Aiyyo hip-hop, yo it runs in my veins |
| Until the day my words no longer convey
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| To the day my CD no longer plays, the crowd’ll still be amazed
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| Even then my name still gon' reign, yo
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| Aiyyo hip-hop, yo it runs in my veins
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| Until the day the music drives me insane
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| To the day they drop me into the grave, the crowd’ll still be amazed
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| Even then my name still gon' reign…
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| Yo, yo, he take a swig of raw Remy, creative juice loose
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| Street smart, apple-shaped heart, Timberland boots
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| Greg beat boost, chronic induced
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| While my larynx short fuse, antagonize by a limited juice
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| Tippin the ladders, bottle full throttle, time’s gettin monotonous
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| Through New York metropolis, runnin through chic populars
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| Tired of makin sense/cents while my dollars don’t work
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| Broke but rock riches religiously, horses on shirts
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| Catchin feelings for this rap shit, every song hurts
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| Connectin pieces of the puzzle in the struggle I learnt
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| Everyone that I found, one either drowned or burnt
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| Addicted to chicks, friction, herbals and tables that turned
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| What is the sound of underground without, people around |
| What is New York without, Uptown holdin it down
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| I’m doin shows for no dough, reside beyond no do’s
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| And those are the flows with no way to expose it though
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| Yeah, see it’s bad from the startin (you can’t cut up in here)
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| Yo, I’m on the guest list (what's your name?)
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| A.K.I.R. |
| (you ain’t on the list fam)
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| Fuck is you talkin 'bout yo?
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| (You ain’t on the fuckin list, get to the back of the line man!)
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| Nigga it’s my motherfuckin party!
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| (I'll knock you little niggas the fuck out!)
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| Father Time is passin me by, the illegitimate child
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| Masterpiece in music is torn, shout as a thug’s wild
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| Playas threw a wet one in, fillin heavens in the Benz
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| And in my measurement, been on time to find the rest of it
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| Shit ain’t the same, life’s no longer a game
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| Uncle Penny-Bags rock through rags and platinum chains
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| The clique name I boast up, taggin up, on a poster
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| Owing these, smokin trees while we post up
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| A young buck feelin old as fuck
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| Steady laughin at the world, passin the buck, still we stuck
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| Sleep now, or forever die restless |
| I fence with a number 2 pencil and indent kids |