| Yo there’s a diss, diss here
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| Yo there’s a diss, diss there
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| Here a diss, there a diss, everybody’s dissing me
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| Yo I’m out of options
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| The force of impact on local voices stays constant
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| Build a massive anger and now I’m lost in
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| Jealous of my high pitched vocals and rough delivery
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| You’re sick of me
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| Saddened by the fact we marked history
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| The first amongst professionals, emerging from Junk Planet
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| Planned in tropic states and then we start expanding
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| I’m the dopest lyricist!
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| 17 and always stressed
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| Cause my fucked-up outlook on life; |
| I stay vexed
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| I’m the best at what I do; |
| I’m not a man you can defeat
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| Here’s advice to all you cipher rivals, «yo talk is cheap»
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| I delete assholes with abundance of animosity
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| I’m still the dopest, even though you fucked up my sound quality
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| An oddity, outcast, that’s straight from the normal
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| Now who’s the piece of shit?
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| Ya’ll are fucking stupid!
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| You know it’s atomic when
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| You can’t stop the rain
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| Ravage bodies for segments and sediments
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| Ain’t a damn thing changed
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| My persona precise conducts riveting performances
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| One hundred percentages
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| Vision of succeeding is fictitious like unicorn’s with contact lenses
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| What?!
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| Most don’t know what
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| Much of those freakin' are stisters staggering to sisters
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| Stops their sisters stuttering and study my rhymes
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| You can shake my hand, but use the other to count your blessings
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| We be the three horsemen of this art form, odd numbers the essence
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| Flashing automatic weapons is blasphemous
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| You’d better hold something heavy
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| When me and the soul kid klik combine the counter-reaction's unbelievable
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| Thus inconceivable
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| Yo G-Clef hold me back
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| This ain’t your average gun clap rap
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| From New York City, to TPA, and back
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| Make sure you pick-up a brochure or pamphlet for info
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| On how I single-handed turn drama MC hamlets in to omelets;
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| Quite nicely, minus the spicy additive
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| The saddest kids at a loss for adjectives to describe these whack shit passages
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| (Wait a minute, wait a minute, cut this shit ay man, you got to get more hyped
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| up than that)
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| (Yo, I ain’t even feeling you Dutch)
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| Ayo commence with the gibberish
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| Face it, ain’t nobody hearing shit
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| I think too much to be an imitating lyricist
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| My experience lacking all qualities of stability
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| C’mon ya’ll are killing me
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| I rearrange identities and ride galactic centipedes
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| More enemies to diss my ego (Nah Duke I’m just confident)
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| Battling Demigods I exit out the Alpha Project
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| Flying objects emit from the arms of order logic
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| You are all now my hostage
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| There is no escape from the carbon glass surrounding
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| You’re trapped in your own bullshit ways of gettin' down kid
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| Emotion filled bastard, battle scars I have none
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| Lookin' towards the future makes me wanna purchase mad guns
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| Stunned to the fact that I act like I don’t care
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| But I’m not mad at the world, just everybody living here
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| (Dutch, you still whack)
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| Yo life’s a snitch, God forbid the bitch report me
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| I practice witchcraft and sorcery, transcend velocities immortally
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| Spittin' ammunition in all directions; |
| I’m every man’s fear
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| You could turn yourself invisible, but you still couldn’t stand clear
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| I live in the flesh, only when I’m wearin' it
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| Flow active and narrative
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| Speak with many tongues leaving MC’s speechless Samaritans
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| I get more applause than God at the Gospel Awards
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| My acceptance speech was immortalized in stone tablets, before the Dinosaurs
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| Beyond the limits that are humanly possible
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| Ripping your hair out follicle by follicle
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| Diabolical vandalist, fuck the graffiti artist
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| I’m the Vampire calligraphist
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| I’d rather tag your name with your cardiovascular excrements
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| Motherfucker this is your last will and testament
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| Celph Titled, sincerely yours, the man who exhales toxins
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| Holdin' down the tropic states, we carry knives to cut our boxes
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| Word life
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| MC’s act like they can flow
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| I know you faking Jacks cause you as hardcore as the Cosby Show
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| (W-w-w-w-What's that?! That,)
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| (TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES, YOU ARE ON HOLY GROUND!) |