| Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a rapper that’s wack
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| As a matter of fact, I smack a back of the style, jackets are now
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| Mellow minced, defeatin the mental
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| And become Gentle as Ben, but then they stibble and dribble
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| And bend like a pencil
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| The only utensil I got, is brain power
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| And you know it’s essential I rock, I rain showers
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| Sleet snow and raise hella eyebrows with my styles
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| You’re wondering how wild
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| When what where, made ladies so horny
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| They can’t even be showin they butt bare
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| Look up there, beside the birds the planets the hawk
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| The rappers who talk the mo' shit
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| I’m makin em walk the plank they stank I’m takin they rank
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| They tossed tiddlewinks I’m playin em like that game
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| I’m gunnin and rackin and packin em up
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| And I’m runnin this here rap thang
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| Main, you wanna go to war, I’ll take you
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| I physically break you, when I break through
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| I’m makin you fake crew, you made a mistake fool
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| I hate you MC’s, I’ll grate you like cheese
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| I may choose to squeeze, my pencil
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| And write out a couple of rhymes
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| Whooooaaaa, whooa my goodness!!!
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| Are we slaughterin, is this just slaughter MC night?
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| Or somethin man, what is this?
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| Is this all the aggression you ever had?
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| How many MC’s must get ripped, before By says don’t flip with the Gift
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| You know? |
| That’s what I’m talkin bout
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| How many MC’s must get dismissed
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| Before somebody says, don’t trip with the Gift
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| You know, it’s all good
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| KP and SloganMasters in the house, the Cheezit Terrorist
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| And we chillin at 90.3 we got thirteen minutes left
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| And then we got Brenda Short, and her records |