| Yo, how you doing?
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| (Celph Titled: Yo, ain’t nothing man, just down and dirt about my scratch)
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| Oh word?
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| (Yo know what I mean)
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| So you going to kick something for the listeners or what?
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| (Oh, no doubt, yo)
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| Ok
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| (Verse 1: Celph Titled)
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| Now listen up, I ain’t one for all of that tough guy chat
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| I come from East Waters Avenue, where niggas cock they gats at
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| Learned how to stack funds without pushing crack crumbs
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| Credit card fraud from pay phones getting cash sums
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| Back in '91, old school Tampa shit
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| Robbing lowriders for they tape decks, amps and kits
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| And we was never shook of cops
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| If we saw you getting shaped up
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| We’d turn the barbershop into a butcher shop
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| Nowadays we more chill but get more ill
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| Keep a burner for protection like I got a force field
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| No more Juice Crew, just faggots wearing Fubu
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| But that’s cool, cause F.U. |
| I wouldn’t want to B. U
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| Niggas creep through with firearms that’ll bang your back
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| A rotten ski mask that look more like a ninja mask
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| I rap like a trained assassin marine, piece the time machine
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| Write in night vision now my rhymes are green
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| I represent Demigodz and Army of the Pharoses
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| Collecting old guns, spending bread on ran toast
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| But if I’m getting on a track and you ain’t as nice as me
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| I up the fee, spit a verse and charge you for the price of three
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| Yeah and that’s a rap
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| A rap for all you string bean mother fuckers
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| Oh my bad, my bad, can we curse
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| (Yeah, don’t sweat it Celph)
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| Oh, alright, my bad
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| That’s a rap for you string bean mothers day advocates
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| You know what I mean, show some love to your mom
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| I know I did |