| Shutup… Yo, yo, yo, yo My life’s not right check one
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| My life’s not right check two
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| My life’s not right check three
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| Are you ready!!!
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| (you know this was supposed to be for my album right?)
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| When I send a sickness (ease down) dark soldiers
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| fallin in with flying debris
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| and bad programs of landmines
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| that remind me of the sexiest of slow jams
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| I pull a glock or fiver murder the group by numbers
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| I was nursed by the biggest of buildings
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| and had the sonic volcanic cap
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| that the butcher have attached to his dead mother
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| now this material might walk with a twitch and live for the twisted shit
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| image is of voice cast getting pistol whipped
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| electronic talents fold
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| the realest television is the one that talks out loud to you
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| when the plug is corroded out
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| and they say productivity is up this month but I’ve lost my passion
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| sick of waiting in line for my weekly chocolate ration
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| its bad health and industrial sadness
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| never helped by tofu franks or? |
| hedistic? |
| maggots
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| this addiction is more random
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| I walk door to door Mormon style spitting my sick tantrums
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| because I wasn’t born handsome
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| now that my life’s complete with a capacity to push greatness buttons
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| with beats that have to be registered
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| as sex offenders represented to the public
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| I’ll exfoliate your face with the acid inside my stomach
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| Binge and purge, we live in thirty second blurbs
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| and if consumers stopped existing we’d forget how to use words
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| just fuckin’eat each other til the next space age occurs
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| or at the source awards scratchin our heads like what happened
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| if the kids would’ve disclosed that you all lost if you just ask them
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| out to plant life that sits and looks pretty
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| to attract curious? |
| and section? |
| angels when in the city
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| that’s below any self-respecting actress in a german schiester film
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| who gobbled doggie dick and human feces
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| my fingers tap buttons with sanctified awareness
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| from heart scan to pulse readings
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| this a voice from a dead dimension without astral projection
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| the sluggish rugged discuss bunk that hovers
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| Acme lab rat escape barely breathing through the heating vents
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| I’ll try to come back for my family before the poison feeding commence
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| but if I should exhaust God’s patience on? |
| some? |
| better take my place nigga
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| tell 'em it’s the love that got me this far
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| and it’s in my dreams I see their faces and
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| Murderers is like handles that clap sandals
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| hand sand off tools and I can’t stand on two
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| amped off booze wheelie with my ancle bruised
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| on the block silly with a mint? |
| ellie?
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| watch young ladies hop scotch with the pink jellies
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| that’s me trying to wop vetti
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| with the longness and pot-bellied
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| til it’s nauseous a raw dog orphan straight out of the orphanage often
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| lost in a realm tryin to find cells
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| strapped like a marksman with raps that’ll off kids mad hi got my mind wrapped in a coffin resurrect thoughts in amorphous
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| morph into Aquaman polyin in waters talkin to dolphins
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| to get that bilingual spittin? |
| charm? |
| tryin to get it on and spit a thorn that’ll split a form in half studyin math
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| light 'dro Eaton’s love mixed with ash
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| spit bats that stick to DAT’s
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| sip snapples and twist off caps when you fuckin with the sickest cats
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| Yo My life’s not right check one
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| My life’s not right check two
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| My life’s not right check three
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| Are you ready???
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| See I exist
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| iron fist
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| metal speech
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| scientist
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| came out the womb of a phoenix expect nothin less
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| then a mature flame velocity’s my plane my thought is my train
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| the galaxy’s the body sun is the heart and the black hole’s the brain
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| heard my verse had nuthin to say
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| I leave your mouth open when you’re standin
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| (the word’s the midget) esophagus is the cannon
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| cipher unknown the upper hand on overstandin watch the landin
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| believe it or not I’m walkin on air
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| last of America’s heroes here to close the circle
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| I still remember the days of Coleco
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| a daily struggle but I hold onto the vision
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| hip hop at it’s best when it lacked television
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| and everybody wasn’t an emcee
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| you know where the flows be and if you check the rhyme slowly
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| you’ll find out cats is unseen like Jarobi
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| and most likely openin doors with the psyche
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| if it’s a Mikey, they’ll eat anything
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| starving but hack or crush anything
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| not stars from the songs we sing this shit’s ridiculoid |