| There’s a whole lot of rappers
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| That claim they so street
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| But all sound the same like reggaeton beats
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| I’ll swing on your jaw
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| And leave your dome piece broken
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| And spin your face quicker than a sidekick open
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| If my label doesn’t get my album off of the ground
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| I’m going to rally my fans and burn your offices down
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| Radio for back up, another officer down
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| Connecticut’s king, that gets back to polish my crown
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| I’m from the era when the mixtapes were standard cassettes
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| Lamped in a Lex with Nike airs and Champion sweats
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| Now a days we them psychos higher with the right flows
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| Kill ghostwriters and give your wigi board typos
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| (Verse 2: Ryu)
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| Say yes, say when, we don’t pack pads and pens
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| Act bad, get the crap slapped out of your friends
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| I turn rap to crack rock and sell it at base price
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| If only you could fit bass pipes in a laptop
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| It’s not a problem, I take it back to the blacktop
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| The Demigod, King Kong, killer Godzilla
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| Raw spit spiller, cap peeler don with the gat cocked
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| Style of Beyond and on and on
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| Yeah we chill with Jay-Z but I call him Shawn
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| It ain’t nothing, I crush him until they chest is flat
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| So clap for the rap fucking phenomenon
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| (Make 'em clap to this)
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| (Verse 3: Motive)
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| Yo, I’m here now
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| So don’t worry where I came from
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| If you trying to find this nigga weakness
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| It ain’t none
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| See I could spit some shit
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| That can leave your brain numb
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| My aim is to bring the game back
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| To what it changed from
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| Niggas is fake though
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| Garbage and I see through it
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| Hate mo is marketing yayo like G-Unit
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| The Godz a squad and yes, we rap cousin
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| And now we back like we mother fucking left something
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| And I ain’t with none of that backpack rap shit
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| But I do keep a mac in my bag if you act slick
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| And when it get pulled, it disperse with a clip full
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| With a bite that’s worse than a pit bull
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| (Verse 4: Tak)
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| We close to the top, if not, it ain’t far
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| My choice, it must be the voice, the next Gang Starr
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| So taste the brand of amphetamines for your whole squad
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| You sniffing this, you’ll swear to God
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| You saw me landing a spaceship
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| Robotic hands with legs and animal faces
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| Chopping the grains of sand to side of bacon
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| An exact spiting image of animal Satan
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| Carrying Los Angeles on his back for ages
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| Whoa, crush the razors, sip the wine
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| The Demigodz invasion cripple your mind
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| I’m a tell 'em again, ripped cat, dude from S. O
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| Stand up for the jam, heat clap, now let’s go
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| (Verse 5: Celph Titled)
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| Reporting live from the planet of the disturbed
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| You’ll think we smoke a massive amount of weed
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| Cause of the way we hit herbs
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| Now which word got you offended
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| I give a fuck and since an infant, I’ve been a misfit
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| You see the way the kid spit
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| I’ve got Raven Symone craving my bone
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| Cat fighting with Hillary Duff putting artillery up
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| (And they don’t know)
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| The Demigodz a force to be reckoned with
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| (So play your part)
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| Or get a tek to your neck and shit
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| Yes, I’m with a naked bitch all night
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| All night with a blow job, she careful around my waist
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| Because a gun might go off
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| Hip hop to you is probably Color Me Bad
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| But it’s a fact I’ve been down
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| Since Michael Jackson was black
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| (Verse 6: Esoteric)
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| E.S. |
| like a slasher flick, master sick
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| Waste to leave cats hacked to bits
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| At the same time relax with the Maxium chicks
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| Snatching flicks because you know I won’t remember that shit
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| Pass the fifth, Demigodz a squad, we’re ruthless
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| You’re useless like blind men with pool sticks
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| Exclusive Nike’s ain’t exclusive
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| When they’re found on the feet of every doofus
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| Your man’s a goner, that thug persona
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| Makes me laugh like Jon Voight in Anaconda
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| The pterodactyl is back, I’m landing on ya
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| 86 Rocket, Ralph Sampson on ya
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| Larry Legend leaving the gym at 2 a. |
| m
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| Carrying weapons |