| Call me Nigga Jim, sarcastic grin
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| Sipping a cup of original sin, full to the brim
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| Cowards snitching again, put the whole hood in the pen
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| And those was they friends, you know a thug, I ain’t him
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| No do-rag and no timbs, still pushed through like bang grim
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| Rocks, just watch me still properly, ice check mic hockey, sip sake
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| Write my name like Taki, can’t stand a photocopy
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| Pipe-heads try to cop me, like you holding that poppy
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| Not trying to be cocky, but don’t pass it to Billy if it’s sloppy
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| Stress got my lyrics choppy
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| Here’s a rule of thumb, a gun liable to make you act dumb
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| And forget you ain’t the only nigga who got one
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| I’m nasty as Robert Crumb, William Woods, Tiger style whole-in-one
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| Got little men on my tongue and ain’t having fun
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| Making Woods run, busting off puns in cybernetic slums
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| Outside the pearly gates I’m Christ' plus one
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| I’m what would have happened if Shakespeare smoked drums
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| Attila The Dun, get my raps off your gums
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| Spitamatic of the numb lung, inhale that THC dust
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| Start moving on macross plus, flushed
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| With purple cuts, hand grenade raps to bust
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| Harry Houdini in cuffs, 007 told me the world’s not enough
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| Aiming verses at Jupiter, I got the right stuff
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| Where I’m from we ain’t chill on blocks
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| Streets was too hot, ain’t no straight shots
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| In the woods where we hide from cops
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| Light pop and brew hops, MCs retraining ‘em
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| To move subterranean with landmine rhymes
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| Underground like coffins, burn a spliff often
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| Crunch shit got me coughing, holding more green than Boston
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| March seventeen, rap’s Abby Hoffman
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| Levitate the Pentagon, in between pulls off the bong
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| My pen right wrong, climbing fire escapes
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| On some Donkey Kong, if popo here I’m gone
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| Good old boys never meaning no harm
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| Down south have you back on the farm
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| With chains on your legs and arms
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| Singing them sad, sad colored songs |