| Ay yo, stick me in your tape deck I’m a cassette
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| You could record demos on me, crackheads try to pawn me
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| Jakes even use me to record statements
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| Play me back, get caught and catch life in the basement
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| No doubt I could be used for many a purpose
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| Never place me on a magnetic surface
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| I might catch amnesia and forget what I know
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| I recall being played in a fucked up Pinto
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| The deck got hot, ate me up till I popped
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| The owner pressed stop, then ejected
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| Tossed out the window neglected, by the curb I lay
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| Shorty, walking to school, picked me up the next day
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| He threw me in a Sony Walkman and pressed play
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| I snagged up again, he took me out, passed me to his friend
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| His friend fixed me, taped me up, now I’m crispy
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| Back together, better than ever
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| Now I’m limping in the inside pocket of his leather
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| His moms didn’t want him having me, said I promoted profanity
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| She hated, but he loved it
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| Ay yo, he threw me in his dude’s tape deck and he dubbed it
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| Gave a copy to his friend, my dub is my twin
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| My contents get under their skin, since
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| Since back in the days of NWA, parents been throwing me away
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| The life of a tape
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| Never put me in your box if your shit eats tapes
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| I let my tape rock till my tape popped
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| Ay yo, my father was an 8-track, my son is a DAT
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| You could record demos on me, I told you before
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| Cop me at the bootlegger in front of the liquor store
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| Cause of me bootleggers, rappers was slappin' 'em
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| Sell a million of me and go platinum
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| Ask Funk Flex and Big Kap and 'em
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| Ay yo, DJs bought the vinyl out of the crate
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| Sit it on the turntable, then watch it rotate
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| 33 RPM, revolutions per minute
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| A flex of the wrist, now the scratch is invented
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| Push the crossfader now the blend is authentic
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| He shouts out the crowd, they respond like guns
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| Gracefully take a bow, competition is won
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| Never put me in your box if your shit eats tapes
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| I let my tape rock till my tape popped |