| Yo, yo, turn my shit up a little bit, man
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| Yeah, like right there and shit
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| Yo, my impacts that fracture bones and pierce stones
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| Reports by Peter Jennings, on your desk when the sun arose
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| That’s deep like a fall from heaven, the call from your reverand
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| Stranded in Baghdad, aggressive as keg blast
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| Silent as sounds as thrusts from a shank stab
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| Move in waves like a puma’s shoulder blade
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| I amaze, I’m amazed, find your ways through the minor haze
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| Photographic chapters from a pall pit
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| Write on the walls of my mind, inside my skull pit
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| Piss cloudy like London skies, I wonder why
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| I don’t drive that jet black four five
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| Who can fuck with me on the table of elements
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| Hand me a mic and I’ll melt MC’s irrevelant
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| Tentaments and projects, throwing up my logo
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| I rhyme degrees equivalent to breathing an inferno
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| Slow burn, running dues and mics, my turn
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| I carry sound barriers, that’s none of your concern
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| I flip moods like nuns with guns, goons and good
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| The hero disposition, superhero with a hood
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| Battle the best of them, ignore the rest of them
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| Killed about a million MC’s, maybe less of 'em
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| Then my dogs taught me, cover my tracks
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| When it’s war time, with more rhymes, to counter attack
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| My word play, similar to shit in Iraq
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| Get blown off the map with no chance to fight back
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| Man down, chip a tooth biting my style
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| Had a lock the same before, yo kid, what’s up now?
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| I creep low, pull heat slow out with heat throw
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| I teach the seeds through you, leak if you need to
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| Proceed to build, far cathedrals where trees grew
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| My thoughts are jagged, slice helmets in Hebrew
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| I watch the hands turn, counter clockwise
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| So I can look back on the future and learn
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| I told you lines small as spines, jam knives, rush revolvers
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| I’m tough smothered in teflon marauders
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| A world’s mother, carry Atlas on my back
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| Throw a shank through your fuel tank, crash ya plane wax
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| Roots up, come through masked and blue truck
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| Still mashing, any shape, form or fashion
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| Outlasting, all those, that profile and pose
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| Like hoes, in the front row, of one of my shows
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| Phillie oh so, rapper slash hustler, kid
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| Ain’t a man alive touching the kid, get off that
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| And into some shit, trust me, I’m as ill as it get
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| Go for your guns, prepare to be crushed, trust none
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| I’m a man of many hats, black hoodies, no furs
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| Want a chaffeur that blow herb all on the curb
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| When the sun shine, I want mine, away from heaven
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| Spitting lazer beam schemes that’ll blind ya vision
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| My dividens, medallion cartel suited pipes
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| Don’t shoot the dice if you ain’t nice, follow the script
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| Rust Detroit, a warfield of concrete trenches
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| The bullet holes, ski masks and backdoor entrance
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| This is it, I wrote it, a poet lauriete
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| With a semi loaded tech, when I speak, rhymes eject
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| No love, but a slug, for these pussies, try’nna push me
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| Over the edge, and out of my head, pronounced head
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| But, we don’t die, we expand to foreign lands
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| Come back with rich for the fam, and break 'em down in grams
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| For the street team, loyalty, guns and roses
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| To hand out the casaulties of war, we soldiers
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| Full of that hydro smoke, it’s over
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| With gats going brat-brrr-rat, where ya killas at? |