| I can’t kill them enough, my camp can’t call It
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| Spike the punch, counselor alcoholic
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| Brain like an abyss, and blow that cancer
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| Get locked for killing a can-can dancer
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| Can’t stop the villain, I’m feelin' myself now
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| Running a couple of times, I’m feelin' myself out
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| Fuck, better you bet now, bet on your boy
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| I’m an idea, not a thing; |
| I cannot be destroyed
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| When they come, gon' get it, getting rid of 'em all
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| Cut life’s cables kid, bet I get on the ball
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| But I hit them all and they just targets
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| Everybody claiming they fly, never really been on a starship
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| Killer City cinema so sad it seems
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| I’m in between the sheets with a bag of dreams
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| And the option is I could bust it at the seams
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| And I’m ready for the Feddy and the half of Nin, c’mon
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| We coming all black, gray and red all day
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| Fall back, me say there ain’t shit safe
|
| Holla oh-ay-oh! |
| Run far 'way
|
| Oh-ay-oh! |
| One bomb state
|
| In the tall grass lay, gunfire rain
|
| Fall back and pray, the one God save
|
| Holla oh-ay-oh! |
| Run far 'way
|
| Oh-ay-oh! |
| One bomb state
|
| Can’t get Phat here, go figure you fatso
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| These cattles you can’t lasso
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| KCMO, this ain’t Lupe Fiasco
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| So watch your spit talk, Tobasco
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| Can’t bust in a cipher without a passcode
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| Prolly can’t spit bars without lying about your cash flow
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| Catch goosebumps off of my last ho
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| Bada bing boom Anthony Soprano
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| Smoke both hands on a piano
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| Brain lock with brain matter on the back handle, Mickey Mantle
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| What you think my city’s on the first 48 for
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| Can’t leave here without your face sore
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| Can’t tell me I don’t know something I do know
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| I can’t not do something that I said I’m gonna do so
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| Now I’m looking for that ass up in Chuco
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| 'Cause I won’t give a joke until you go
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| We coming all black, gray and red all day
|
| Fall back, me say there ain’t shit safe
|
| Holla oh-ay-oh! |
| Run far 'way
|
| Oh-ay-oh! |
| One bomb state
|
| In the tall grass lay, gunfire rain
|
| Fall back and pray, the one God save
|
| Holla oh-ay-oh! |
| Run far 'way
|
| Oh-ay-oh! |
| One bomb state
|
| They can’t know my style, they can’t see me
|
| Too hot for radio, show banned from TV
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| They can’t read me, Elway running a play
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| Running a route, take one and I’m out
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| The Champeezee, done without the
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| Son, I’m about to stampede them
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| Big throat what I’m about, can’t reason
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| Around if it needs, 'less we can count it
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| It’s not real, we stuck in a box still
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| But tryin' to be big as the Biggie and Pac bill
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| The Killer City Commitee, we can’t pity ya
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| Rather you clap for me than give me Chlamydia
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| Flippin' the beat from Tripoli out in Libya
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| The jam shaking the fans, hot
|
| You can’t can or stamp, I know Kansas clubs on the low
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| Kansas folks can’t stand us
|
| We coming all black, gray and red all day
|
| Fall back, me say there ain’t shit safe
|
| Holla oh-ay-oh! |
| Run far 'way
|
| Oh-ay-oh! |
| One bomb state
|
| In the tall grass lay, gunfire rain
|
| Fall back and pray, the one God save
|
| Holla oh-ay-oh! |
| Run far 'way
|
| Oh-ay-oh! |
| One bomb state |