| The Ultimatum, let’s abbreviate em
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| The Ultimatum, let’s abbreviate em
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| You can’t fuck with the army
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| The ultimatum ain’t debated, ain’t the same as when you waitin'
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| For someone to keep their word or the paper from a payment
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| Ain’t negating nothin'
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| I can break their front and take it from them
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| Wait a month and take a pump and make 'em want to make up somethin'
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| Take an up-and-coming artist
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| Or classic figure
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| If you see me reaching out, it’s to smack a nigga
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| Melanin scheme is telling 'em squeeze, shell an MC to breeze
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| Ease G', tell like Aviv
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| Felony three on melody schemes
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| They selling them dreams
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| DMX is Nelly to me
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| Tellin' 'em please, just leave
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| Before I have to swell a person
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| It’s no question like playing the a capella version
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| Look I said it before, shouldn’t say it again
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| But in case you hard of hearing look you and your mans
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| Can get it in the worst way, run when killers thirsty
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| For a lame and his blood
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| Sweep it under the rug
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| Just like it never happened, we professional fighters
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| And I ain’t talking about scrapping
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| I’m talking pistol gripping
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| You know the rest, no need to, stress how my niggas live it
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| Just know we go so hard, for dough and lavish living
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| And since I had my taste can’t find nothing that’s better
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| Ridin' high gripping wood, ass on the softest leather
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| Oh, y’all some scary dudes? |
| Man I ain’t afraid of you
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| Murder you, crack a brew and watch it on the news
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| Get stabbed by the cuts on the Kwest beat, respect beef
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| Marty McFly shit, get knocked into next week
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| What does the future hold? |
| Bullets going through your clothes
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| My niggas is all large like a Jewish nose
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| Hold more arms than a hookah bowl
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| Y’all motherfuckers ain’t been nice since the Eagles won the Superbowl
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| Check your stat books, get your rat hooks
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| Out my rap books, biting-ass niggas get your snacks took
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| You in the scrapbook scrap shook
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| Y’all niggas think beef is what these dudes type on they Macbooks
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| I’ll smash your Hewlett-Packard
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| You fucking doofus rapper
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| A.O.T.P. |
| fuckers, it’s the newest chapter
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| Catch me in the street dressed pretty as hell
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| But when it comes to these raps I get gritty for real
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| Knock 'em out the box Syze
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| I spin your motherfucking head counterclockwise
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| Y’all niggas is not Syze
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| You full of shit like a pot pie
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| Labels better cross them T’s, dot them I’s or them shots fly
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| Pass the Master, have to blast you
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| Chokin' the track like please excuse the asthma
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| Please excuse my French, fuck the Spanish
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| Talking ghetto language the hood can understand it
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| A wrath of God, Satan; |
| fuck the apostles
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| Army of the Pharaohs back ready to rock you
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| Vinnie fucking smash your jaw
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| It ain’t nobody rapping half as raw
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| I was writing rhymes over loops by Stacy Lattimore
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| Guess you wondering what Vinnie need all the assassins for
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| Guess you wondering if I’m a communist or fascist bol
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| Shoot three at you and push the rock like this was basketball
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| Chop your body up in little pieces with my plastic saw
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| Y’all need to overstand the jux is real
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| I run with ghetto boys and I ain’t talking Bushwick Bill
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| If looks could kill then y’all would be kaputs for real
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| We drink your blood and hang your body up on hooks of steel
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| I push the pills, call me Vinnie the psychiatrist
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| And y’all are gonna have to see defeat like a podiatrist
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| In the dice game you say I won’t place those bets
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| That’s like saying you know the Wu, but call that dude Ghostface Deck
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| I leave your whole face wet like you got hit with a water balloon
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| The size of a propane jet
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| Altercations I took place and no police was involved
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| If I’m beefin' we ain’t greetin', I’m deleting you, pal
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| I keep my weed in a jar
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| And roll it in a Philly wrapper
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| I’m A.O.T.P. |
| so I roll with Philly rappers
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| And will kill a rapper
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| Don’t believe us? |
| Try us
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| We the illest out believe it I’m not biased
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| At best you’re a rookie
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| Your show’s like a Catwoman audition
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| 'Cause we’ll see who plays the best pussy
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| It’s the ultra (ultra)
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| Magnetic like I’m seven foot
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| Outsmart your art of rhyme though I’ve never read a book
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| Off with your head, you shook in the corner shiverin'
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| Delivering a dosage of the most potent Ritalin |
| You must be kiddin' nigga, this ain’t no Kid 'n Play
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| More like N.W.A
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| Fuck you kids gonna say?
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| Hola Hola aye
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| Oh God hold my trey pound
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| You rap clowns sit around in broad day
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| Broad Street Bully rap
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| Yo Kwest you took me back
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| To the scuffed trees and the Champion hoodies in black
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| I blacked out
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| Snap in a packed house
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| The gallon of Jack’s out
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| That stout got my passed out
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| You can’t take the word on the street from a bird on the wire
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| And you’ll never hear the truth in the church of a liar
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| Real men converse, you prefer to conspire
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| Give it a year you’ll be the first to retire
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| We don’t roll with snakes, we curse a pariah
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| You’re mad at your people over earthly desires
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| You don’t believe it? |
| Just peep the verses
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| Presidential, we roll deep as secret service
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| Too many niggas claim they O. G
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| But most of them won’t approach me
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| Catch me everywhere, my niggas like to play low key
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| I’m mostly surrounded by apes, gorillas
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| Out of a broken home so they label us hateful niggas
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| Never take a nation of mills, it takes a killer
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| On medication chasin' their pills with haze and liquor
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| Bad lieutenant in a black whip, black shottie
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| Dragging a safety net only 'cause we catch bodies
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| We act snotty and rap godly and clap loudly
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| They don’t want hardcore 'cause they fags probably
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| I don’t make shit to make you want to paint a canvas
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| I spit fatal language only to cause pain and anguish
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| Don’t bring drama to the old-timers
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| When it calls for a time you catch Alzheimer’s
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| And turn into Carl Thomas
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| I’ll pack a Llama
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| Separate the lions from llamas and alpacas if I pow pow at ya
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| Ali bumaye
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| Zoom by clappin' ya
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| Wound guys, the room guys, Mumbai massacre
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| Verse so raw I’m trying to tell ya
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| I’ll salmonella poison any these boys in the path of the craft
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| Lean on the Craftmatic
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| Paralyzed from ass to your calf
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| Half radish for half of the cabbage
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| Five and a half hours, dime bags is sour
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| Get twisted, niggas get high as the Comcast tower
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| Lifted
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| Like a dumbbell, inhale; |
| your lungs swell
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| Whiff of the piff bury the gun smell
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| Either you run well, the shells stick in you like a thumbtack
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| Pistol clip you like a thumbnail
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| Won’t get caught for a thumbprint
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| The lawyer eat the case like roast
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| Deploy you and your boy, ain’t payin' one cent
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| Hide your charms
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| Firearms, will rip through the bone and the marrow
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| It’s the Army of the Pharaohs
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| Check |