| Javelins hawk within striking distance
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| Alert to the sounds we hear, the rapid response verses in the air
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| I smell the tobacco, we know that you’re here
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| So does the white tail buck and the black bears
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| What the fuck gave you the right?
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| To come into the wilderness just to pick a fight?
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| Whatever jurisdiction you from we rip mics
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| The B-line of blood trail in the dim light
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| Back to the kill site
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| Come here city boy, I hear you’re real nice
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| Surrounded by dark so far from the city lights
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| Stop browsing, sniff downwind cowards
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| You pissed yourself, you smell more foul than public housing
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| Hardcore, parkour, tear off your car doors
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| Fire-breathing gargoyles, eating hyenas, charbroiled
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| Alien tongues long sharp but called predator claws
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| I rip through the Kevlar for your heart
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| 'Till your lower body support lost
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| The large carnivore Spitboss Beowulf rip your torsos off
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| Float like the flying Albatross, part Mothman part wasp
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| Ambush armour transport to the marsh
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| Javelin Fangz, Germaine’s bombing raid campaign
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| My hands change when I drink Beowulf bane
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| You ain’t seen nothing nearly as strange
|
| Blurry as alien planes, still in the frame but nearly out of range
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| Canines, Sons of Cain, impervious to pain
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| Numb off cocaine, ripping railroad tracks off trains
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| Deranged batshit insane, rhymes liquefy brains
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| Daydreaming of rain, smoke haze and stargaze
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| AKs spray photon rage, Sharpshooter sharp fangs
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| Heart pumpin' napalm through coarse veins
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| Speak to barmaids, breath reeks of Grand Marnier
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| She says, «come on behave», I remove my dark shades
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| Eyes buried behind wrinkles like Shar Peis
|
| I got a scarface from back in my dog days
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| The posttraumatic microphone mechanic
|
| Leave the habitat damaged when I rat-a-tat that ratchet
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| You fucking with the Sharpshooter Masters
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| When the missile is aimed to blow you out of the frame
|
| Some will still remember it was done by Germaine
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| In the beginning I made lyrics, now lyrics make me
|
| You’re listening to Rip The Jacker II: Infinity
|
| This rhyme can outlive your whole lifetime
|
| Be waiting for you on the other side when you arrive
|
| Surround you with a layer to the left, to the right
|
| To the front to the back, with a rap and a mic
|
| For satellite rappers delight, you battle for your life
|
| You battle from sunrise to off white moonlight
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| The cedar wood burns, my heating is rightfully earned
|
| I take you on a journey through the words
|
| In the mind, hold your hand with an infinite rhyme
|
| For a time I know it makes you shy, but that’s fine
|
| Come along with me, let me show you how hard it can be
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| To spit like the 100 Bar Beast
|
| An extra large dosage of the dopeness
|
| How can I be anything but focused as the spitbar soldier
|
| The rhyme equity above quota
|
| Sometimes I go over with more bars than the beat goes for
|
| Walk around confused, listening to tunes
|
| Music is my muse, Can-I-Bus this abuse?
|
| Put blades to your bones like the Autobiography of Kirk Jones
|
| Nah, I just work for him
|
| I will be redeemed for the destruction of the Hip Hop regime
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| For how it was remembered and seen
|
| Mission requires a plan, armed personnel and staff
|
| But tradition demands I be a more primitive man
|
| Three standard 16s; |
| fade the record at 3:35
|
| Grim reaper axe, kick to your spine
|
| Pound after pound, I come stomp on your brain
|
| Spit fire like I drink hot sauce from a drain
|
| When the missile is aimed to blow you out of the frame
|
| Some will still remember it was done by Germaine
|
| When the missile is aimed to blow you out of the frame
|
| That’s when you know your times up Germaine
|
| Don’t forget you nice, you fit the right archetype
|
| Beating niggas to death and beating dead niggas to life |