| Comin for all you punk motherfuckers…
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| It Ain’t Nuthin Nice… Celph Titled
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| I’m Undefeatable, Biggie would even say I’m unbelievable
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| Plus quick to flip like Sport Utility Vehicles
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| I crush years, so don’t ever come near,
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| Cause it was done from the beginning like Father MC’s career
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| A new title holder is here this year
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| Ap’s raps got more pussies open than pap smears
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| The nicest emcee, you’ll never dispute
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| Cause I’ve been rappin since the tree on your Timb boots was roots
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| I knock more boots than 40 deuce prostitutes
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| but not for loot, only if she’s hot and cute
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| Try and cock block my game it’s complete violation
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| Cause Apathy’s got more hoes/hose than firestations
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| I face off with imitators and take off
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| Bring more flavor to the beef than steak sauce
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| You think your phatter than Apathy, but you way off,
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| You’re soft, and you’ve done more weight loss than Kate Moss
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| Let me tell you about my only vice
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| It has to do with rockin mics and it ain’t nuthin nice
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| Your shit’s finito, I wrap up beef like a burrito
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| Underground flow, down low, incognito
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| The torpedo, that tore flows, that tore shows,
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| through tore clothes, before blows, through torsos,
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| It’s Apathy, so large my physical mass occupies
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| multiple galaxies like god off calories
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| I cock back, rock raps for dickriders,
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| My mic is something you should never pick up like hitchhikers
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| Above average, y’all better practice
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| Even weak emcee’s consider you the wackest
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| I heard your debut joint, your song ain’t hot
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| Its something that a crackhead would pawn for rock
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| I got bombs, with glocks on lock to blow spots
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| My flow clocks the speed of mach and won’t stop
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| You got a lot of hype, but I know you’re a flop
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| Nothin’s really gonna happen, like when the ball drops
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| You all stop, you all pussy clot,
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| mushy as when a cookie drops in milk
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| I pop like when rookie cops with glocks and felt nervous at first
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| But the verses reverses, the guilt from the suckers I killed
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| I cop green, last and burn like hot steam
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| Spit one rhyme and destroy the pop scene
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| You cum too quick like a teen with hot dreams
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| You wack, while I crack more heads than rock fiends
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| I hold power like Imhotep controls magic
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| Spin old jazz wax, and spit over static
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| I want hip hop to come back and make classics
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| Nas should spit it like he did for Illmatic
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| My raps add up, like numbers in mathmatics
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| I got more tracks than arms of crack addicts
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| My wax acts like an axe hackin up faggots
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| Im fly, like the adult stage of maggots
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| Apathy is the illest on mics its like a habit,
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| Even ask Ed O.G. |
| «I Got to Have It»
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| I bubble your mouth full, like South Pole jackets
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| It’s tragic, why you even mess with this rap shit
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| Nobody wants to fuck with you like busted fat chicks
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| Ya clips aint full, when you pull your gat clips
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| Now how you gonna battle this, spittin that wack shit
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| Demigodz, Apathy, we on the cut, you know the deal
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| my man Unknown on the ones and twos
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| yall suckas can lose,
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| there is no competition, yall know how we do
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| it aint nuthin nice |