| This shit is light work!
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| It’s time to stack the bar on 'em
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| You know
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| Hey yo, Kwest talk to 'em
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| Come on
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| You’re lightweight, and only force me to cause casualties
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| Call me the specialist, professor at this rap science
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| Vocal streetsweeper, buck shots through the speakers
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| You’re searching for signs of the end, well I am that
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| You’re light weight, it only force me to cause casualties
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| Call me the specialist, professor at this rap science
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| My city never sleeps
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| You’re searching for signs of the end, well I am that
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| Peep the way we play it
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| Y’all start, we finish
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| Car bombing, no Guinness
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| Then we go about our business
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| Yapping like you acting wild
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| The goonies hanging out the back Denal'
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| Will pat you down and leave you au naturale
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| Shoulda known by now that we wreck it
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| Cool, calm, collected
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| Till y’all disrespect it
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| Temperament of like an ill rotti
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| Strictly for the thrill
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| I’ll probably leave a chilled body
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| Lifted off my skills
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| Oddly enough, they’re fronting like their pockets’ll bust
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| And that a homi’s nothing 'til they’re
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| Getting robbed for their bucks
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| Could give a frruck about your knolly
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| Of that molly and puff
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| Stop with the fuss
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| Come on, your shitty topics get flushed
|
| Between the lines is where we live
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| Them evil kids are on the eve of sneaking in
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| And tweaking off the leaf and gin
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| Another move and dude, it’s checkmate
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| So let me set the rec straight
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| Or catch some fucking holes up in your chest plate
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| I’m the artful dodger, villain and rogue scholar
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| Rappers trying to pose like Vogue should not bother
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| The author, poet and father of King Arthur
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| The archer, harder at work than a Amish farmer
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| The farther, the further the earth and the sun circle
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| A ceiling inside a circular ship, the soul burglar
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| Bird in the hand
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| Drive-by music for fans
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| Only a few will understand
|
| If you get it, you’re the man
|
| Ap’s highly in demand
|
| My brain scans set off red flags
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| Like rape vans at lemonade stands
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| I just bought a pair of Ray Bans
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| For like eight-grand
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| 'Cause I’m Cyclopse
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| My eyes turn towns to wastelands
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| Y’all are fragile, trying to shake hands with an ape man
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| Take damage
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| Metacarpals wrapped in an Ace bandage
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| I’m the Bermuda Triangle where planes vanish
|
| I paint canvases with strange, deranged antics
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| I walk a rugged path
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| Rittled with skeletons and tons of ash
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| My ears polluted with this music 'bout your lumps of cash
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| These thoughts of bloody baths
|
| Will pass, so I just shrug and laugh
|
| And grab the pad and script some shit
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| To makes you jump and spaz
|
| Enough’s enough we out the rough
|
| Swinging them blades of justice
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| Coming directly for your neck
|
| And yes, I shaved the cuspids
|
| Engrave the muskets
|
| So y’all suckers really get the point
|
| And spark the revolution before you can lift the joint
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| My words and actions
|
| Swerving past you, over top your head
|
| We out for props and cred
|
| It’s what gets done, and not what’s said
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| Shit, treat your facial like some rare wax
|
| Scuff the Air Max
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| Will get you blown just like an air sax
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| Face the facts or catch a rude awakening
|
| My crew’s basically breaking in your favorite station
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| So my tapes could spin
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| Spitting in the face of sin 'til we’re dead and gone
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| Repping the F dot click, so get your letters on |