| Suckas, pack up your shit,
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| And all your bunk DJ equipment.
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| Your ass is 187 when my boy is bent.
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| So be prepared to be measured for a coffin.
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| Your fucked up, wick wack scratch is kinda soft and
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| faggots, please I dont think you can tag this.
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| Cuts deaper than the depth’s of Atlantis.
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| But then they ask, 'how low can you go?'
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| No questions this is my DJ’s solo.
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| So freak it, go ahead Mike get kinda funky.
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| sharp like a guillotine, kick ass like a donkey.
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| If there is any contenders you can’t match,
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| My DJ Mike T with his fucking funky scratch.
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| Scratching.
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| One more introduction,
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| In other words I’ll keep bussing.
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| Lyrics after lyrics, so keep on rushing.
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| Technique 1200's is what he’s using.
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| Blow after blow Mike T is 1−2ing and 3ing,
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| but don’t forget about the E and
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| who’s got the back up. |
| So punk just slack up.
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| Dont cross his path cause he’ll put you to the test.
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| Reminds me of the wicked witch from the west.
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| So for your own safety I think I ought to Tell you its curtains and then flip the quarter.
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| So stay in last place, you just can’t match
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| My DJ Mike T with his fucking funky scratch. |
| geah.
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| Scratching
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| Back for the mutherfucking '91
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| My DJ Mike T’s in the fucking house.
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| Down with the MC Eiht, Compton’s Most Wanted Crew.
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| Housing the mutherfucking set.
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| Killing 'em off side by each. |
| Audi 5000 |