| You’s a notebook crook, with loose sleave beef
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| a backseat criminal that pass the heat
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| to somebody that blast the heat
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| Man, it sound bad on the pad, what happened in the street?
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| revealing on the vinyl an analog outlaw
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| alot of gats on your DAT, tape southpaw
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| you thuggin’when the mic’s plugged in barkin’through the speakers like you got no sense
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| you wild on the two inch
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| got your platinum plaques to prove it your music’s been around the World movin'
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| and it comes right back around on the ground, don’t it?
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| now it’s time to face your opponent
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| Infamous cling to this real shit, stuck where we started at fuck that, not because we have to, I want to I love this shit, the raw is what I live for
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| to hear the sound of the crowd roar for more
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| to see the niggas that can’t pay rush the door
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| whylin’on the dancefloor
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| when they song come on, swingin’they fists, ready for war
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| but it’s a different type of effect, it’s not violence
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| they’re just tranced by the advance
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| tranked by the sound bank
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| put under the drum, numbed off of our shit
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| now who you rockin’wit'? |
| them or us deep love or cheap lust?, QB 'll bust
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| Infamous 'till we pass on you laughin’at the wrong shit, I take ac-tion
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| defend my confedons
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| nigga I write bombs that’ll shatter your ambitions of bein’top dog
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| as we move through the stage fog
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| I need to bass more
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| so I can taste it and make ya’ll go AWOL
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| and lose it, say no more, brace your delf, nigga it’s on.
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| Verse 2: (Cormega)
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| (yo, back up yo.)
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| Who’s tale you tellin'? |
| are you frail or felon?
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| were you makin’sales or watchin’niggas sellin'?
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| you exploit niggas lives in your rhymes and then avoid 'em
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| you never felt the moisture in the air of coke boilin'
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| you never felt the razor scrapin’your plate
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| your hands achin’yet you keep choppin''cause theres paper to make
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| you never felt the power of invincibility
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| clutchin’a gun like fuck it dun, it’s him or me at your best you was a hand to hand
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| no more than Three grams
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| what the fuck you know about a Ki, man?
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| you never hustled
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| lets get it right, my nigga Y would’ve stuck you
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| stop dry snitchin’in your rhymes, listen
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| what you tryin’to do? |
| help the guys in Blue?
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| indight niggas so that can be another rhyme for you?
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| you a parasite, you never had a life
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| so you throw other niggas lives in your pad at night
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| it’s clever when you write it spoken well for a dude who never been indighted
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| you know the deal mothafucka, the real make the fake niggas kneel
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| and lose appetites when you taste niggas steel
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| my rhymes are what it takes to get a deal and make it real
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| I’m like Big, you can’t replace the skill
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| I laced it ill like Cocaine in Scarface’s grill
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| your mothafuckin’flow is basic, chill
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| I’m Cormega, raw forever
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| y’all niggas know my steez, I’m reppin’for Queens
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| you minor league
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| I’m big time like Mark McGwire’s team
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| your whole team is pussy, when I squeeze vaginas bleed
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| my lyrics stay official
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| I bagged up coke on dishes made of crystal
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| your niggas, they won’t miss you
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| my Nickel-plated pistol — got Sixteen shots, you can take 'em wit’you
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| to the coffin or DA’s office
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| surgeory, nurses screamin'"We lost him!"
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| life suddenly divorced him, fuck it, it cost him
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| if you want beef say no more
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| brace your delf, nigga it’s on, we spray Four-Fours, bitch! |