| Victory
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| Ours are the cries that breathe life in the concrete
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| Victory
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| Ours are the tears that splash genius at God’s feet
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| Victory
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| Ours are the prayers that weave poetry through drum beats
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| Victory
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| Step inside the mind of a soon-to-be legendary
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| Straight paramilitary
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| Brother Ali exist to read the scripture, it’s never read
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| Whoever said this underground hip-hop shit is dead
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| Must have fell and hit his head
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| Spent my lifetime buildin
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| Writin rhymes I remind rappers of everything that scared them as children
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| They call me show stopper
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| No opera singer has hit the exact pitch, I spit my flow out of
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| Taught directly by the source of all knowledge
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| You don’t affect me till you’re forced to draw powers
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| Respect me as a voice amongst scholars
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| Who speak deep to thee, move the sleep from your eye lids
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| Make your lungs flutter
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| Get it right, my inner light cast shadows on the sun, brother
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| I’m where the rubber meets the concrete
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| It’s a cold world, not sayin bring your your own heat
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| I’m just sayin don’t sleep
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| I’m walkin with Allah until the day that I die
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| And the pens have been lifted and the pages have dried
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| And a thick smoke screen wrote my name in the sky
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| Politickin with the angels knowin they would reply
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| Got the lungs of a cyclone, tongue of a python
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| The reason why your favorite MC sleep with the lights on
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| Right on, brother, we def as fuck
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| Not 'deaf' like (What?) but 'def' like (WHAT!)
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| From the depths around the planet where my name’s spoken
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| We here to get our brains open and our chains broken
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| Watch me walk around the planet with the same notion
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| His adversaries thought the pain broke him
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| But we run up in a stadium with diagnostics
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| Two tables and a mic and take a crowd hostage
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| And the very first item on my list of demands
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| Is that all these freedom fighters start liftin they hands
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| To my freedom fighters and the graffiti writers
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| And the people like us — come forward
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| And to the torch carriers speakin Arabic
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| Ridin on your chariots — come forward
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| To my political prisoners, individual listeners
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| Who feelin this — come forward
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| And to the bone shakers and the home makers
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| Raisin our own saviors — come forward
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| Me and my people are signed, sealed, delivered, incorporated
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| Brought to you by Rhymesayers Entertainment
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| You got to face it, we not complacent
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| We came via the basement and left your face bent
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| And me, mister Brother Ali is the stomp-down-beat-kicker
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| Who walkin the streets with the so real philosophy
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| Until I fulfill prophecy there’s no real stoppin me
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| Obviously I’m the bomb, believe me
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| Opponents come up missin and they all beneath me
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| I know my soldiers need me, they call and beep me
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| I walk the streets freely with chalk beneath me, boy
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| We stays gettin it on
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| Act hard and I probably make you strip to your thong
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| Dissin your song and feel you mouth to fist when you yawn
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| Nibblin on a rapper till the gristle is gone
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| I stand and sing from atop my minaret
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| I am a king, just ain’t got my kingdom yet
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| And my anthem ring from the Congo to your set
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| I’m Alfred Hitchcock with my silhouette
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| Pourin Blood On Beats till the trumpet is blown
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| Coffins, I release em when I’m up in the zone
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| Fortune favors the brave and press on is the motto
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| Cast shadows on the sun with my bravado |