| They shootin' at the screen
|
| Laser beams, lucid dreams
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| Even the wiliest fiends find theyselves losing steam
|
| Chasing hits, Barry Bonds
|
| Those high scores only last so long
|
| 8 bits in the cartridge, 16 in the P
|
| Yeah, it comes with the game but ain’t a damn thing free
|
| The kid talk about pussy like he trying to convince me
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| G’head dog, I see how close you and your niggas be
|
| Self-described pretty G’s with fly bitches on they tweets
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| But me?
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| I’ll Delonte West your Old Earth and still keep it discreet
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| Duke, your whole style is wash, rinse, repeat
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| I bet your A&R knew he struck gold with that easy listening
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| Middle of the road
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| And to all you rapping christians on a mission, I’m happy to lighten that load
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| You’ll stumble out the jungle twenty pounds lighter
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| Wild eyed like a white man after twenty days on Rikers
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| Tell em our pupils was red, skin black, rhyming brutal
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| Back of the izakaya, Sapporo tallboy with my Ramen noodle
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| Either I’m seeing y’alls wires or this strain is that crucial
|
| A lot of shit old people got to say, really ain’t that useful
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| So don’t mind me youngin', do you, spread your wings
|
| I’mma be right up on that Magnavox clappin' that thing
|
| They shootin' at the screen
|
| Laser beams, lucid dreams
|
| Even the wiliest fiends find theyselves losing steam
|
| Chasing hits, Barry Bonds
|
| Those high scores only last so long
|
| 8 bits in the cartridge, 16 in the P
|
| Yeah, it comes with the game but ain’t a damn thing free
|
| To everyone I loved
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| To everyone who fronted me drugs
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| To all y’all who still frontin' and fake friends who left me for dead in the mud
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| Salud!
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| May you each get exactly what you deserve
|
| Had a speech prepared chock full of them SAT words
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| But on second thought, fuck it, two tears in a bucket about sums it
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| A tisket, a tasket
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| Black Robert Baden Powell, never caught without the ratchet
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| Grass like Wimbledon, wood racquet
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| Rap like a simpleton, see new tax bracket
|
| So-called goons, turns out they schools was magnet
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| Masters of masquerade masked up, all the worlds a stage, director’s cut
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| Faster blade, hunting ducks, both barrels spray
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| They stuttering «best of luck» on your last day
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| Last check cut bout 3 weeks before your health insurance fly away
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| Smarten up, Hulk gray or find yourself in the hole like Special K
|
| Pimpers Paradise
|
| Nigga my mic sounds nice and from the jump, I bet my life
|
| Pocket collapsing, it’s the recession, nobody’s buying the playaction
|
| We don’t believe you like the government in Mogadishu, you need more factions
|
| They shootin' at the screen
|
| Laser beams, lucid dreams
|
| Even the wiliest fiends find theyselves losing steam
|
| Chasing hits, Barry Bonds
|
| Those high scores only last so long
|
| 8 bits in the cartridge, 16 in the P
|
| Yeah, it comes with the game but ain’t a damn thing free |