| You Troy, I’mma come on the rhythm
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| With a little communism
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| Chick-a chick-a I’m, chick-a chick-a on
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| Chick-a chick-a my, my, own shit
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| Like an entrepreneur, that stepped in manure
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| Man I’m newer than a Jack I went up the hill with Jill
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| And Jack Jill’s big bootay
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| We did the booty up, I told the Bitch she Betta Have My Money
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| Or step to the AMG
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| You know Com Sense, oh yeah him be
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| That nigga that be making all the bid-by-by-bye sounds
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| But since then, Common calm down!
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| I’m on some calm shit watch Com get complicated
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| Simple motherfuckers say the way that Com communicated
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| Was too complex, I got a complex not to complain
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| On my brain no complain and so will my community
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| And I prefer compliments
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| So I complement at an angle of ninety degrees
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| It’s the nineties and music got known for the grease
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| I got a sense of direction and a compass
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| Com passed emcees with no compassion, though I heard the screams of
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| But I ain’t shy, so why shall I comfort?
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| Com should have been at the fort with Jeff I’m so ill
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| But I chilled in my compartment with no company and no meals
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| Now Com could get the penny, but I want my own company
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| And Com is on a mission not to work for commission
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| It’s a common market and it’s so much competition
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| But to me, competition is none
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| To my comp I’m a ton I get amped like Watts in a riot
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| My compact disc is a commodity, so buy it
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| Instead of competing with Pete
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| Com compromised, Com made a promise
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| Not to commercialize, but compound the soul
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| With other elements, compelling sense into Communism |