| Yo, yo If you just listen to my lyrics every day for a couple of weeks
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| My techniques will eventually kill you just like red meat
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| The Bhagavad Gita beliefs I speak be so deep
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| Most critics get mad because there’s nothin to critique
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| Whenever I’m rappin or rhymin
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| with irrefutably remarkable timin
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| I’m like, Charlie Chaplin pantomimin
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| If you John Blaze, or you James Flames
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| or you Jack Cremation, I’m Jermaine Propane (Jermaine Propane)
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| No pain no gain in this rap game
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| For the fortune and fame in order to remain
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| Most real MC’s, learn to adapt to the change
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| or get washed away like tears in the rain, in the rain y’all
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| Chorus: Wyclef, Product, Pras
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| Just ride, just ride, ah just ride e’rybody just ride
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| Just ride, just ride, ah just ride e’rybody just ride
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| When you in the streets and you’re drivin in your V if you can see what I see, you’re prepared for the jackers
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| Old school, old school
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| Everybody got to pack a mac now
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| Yo, if you wanna know, how I kick a flow
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| when I rip a show, with my lyric-al, I’ma let you know
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| It’s difficult, cause I’m a part spiritual, part para-physical miracle
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| And I’ma blackout in a minute too
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| Spittin like Bone-Thugs like
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| Nigga-what? |
| I’m-fin-to-get-a-gun and stick-em-up
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| then crush a Thug’s Bones with a chrome slug
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| The black Cyrano DeBergerac of rap
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| with the ghetto Anglo-Sax'poetic syntax
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| In fact, nigga don’t even give me dap when I see you
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| Just don’t give me no ice grill eye contact either
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| When you see me, whylin like Beenie on the speakers
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| Zim zimma -- who got the fire for my reefa?
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| Chorus: Product, Pras, Wyclef
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| You came home from a bid a nigga was in your crib
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| And the whole time you thought your girl was celebate
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| Old school old school
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| You locked up and she need some di-ick
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| Just ride, just ride, ah just ride e’rybody just ride
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| Just ride in the hood, just ride, all my. |
| uh, ah just ride
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| Yo physically I move at a velocity
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| that’ll break your stopwatch if you clockin me My concrete jungle is like Jumanji
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| Iller than what you seen in the cinema
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| A five foot eight, nigga with more horsepower than eight cylinders
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| My brain consists of twin Pentium chips
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| Double the clock speeds of a 586
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| And nothin about my physical matrix is BASIC
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| I kick flavor beyond what your tongue is capable of tastin
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| You’ll be so surprised you won’t believe your own eyes
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| It’s like a Jamaican seein the snow for the first time
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| Rhymes of a sort, that distort space and time
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| It’s like explainin color to a man that was born blind
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| Chorus: Product
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| Crimes on the street, come from a lack of eatin
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| It’s not my cup of tea, but I’ll give them the BEST
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| Motherfuckin BEST
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| And if you still out here I kick yo’ass tomorrow
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| Old school, old school (c'mon!)
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| And if you still out here, I kick yo’ass tomorrow
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| Old school, old school (c'mon y’all)
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| Frontin like you buyin food but you buyin crack bottles
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| Ah just ride, ah just ride
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| Everybody in the East just ride
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| Ah just ride, ah just ride
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| Everybody in the West just ride
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| Ah to the South, down South
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| Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
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| Ah just ride |