| It’s the psychic that’s on the creep
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| Bringing heat to all the projects, sets, boundaries
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| Now when you see these, here they’re coming over sea with no key
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| Bringing death notes to all images in the rap industry (Death)
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| We gladly present to you, the scientist
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| There’s no time left, eject the tape, niggas evacuate the set
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| Jet, I’m leaving notes laced with death on your doorsteps
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| Make your last request, eternal rest your destination
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| Premeditation murder, a result of aggravation
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| These sticky situations got me in a zone, polish the chrome
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| Prone to demolish these niggas like Sly Stallone
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| If loving the game is wrong, I don’t wanna be correct
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| Those who ride in my set get outlined like silhouettes
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| So death’s a blackout, don’t ask about my riches
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| I cast a spell on the snitches, my cliental are the strictest
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| I’m predicted, niggas get twisted with my scientifics
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| Witness this I increase my salary by six digits
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| Wiping out all existence, get diminished instantly
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| Tonight’s the night, and we mobbing through your city making history |
| I’m mentally abusive, undisputed
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| No need to interview me, my lyrics debut, they exclusive
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| We believe in death notes, for those that approach
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| Lay comatose, it’s gun smoke on every coast
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| We believe in death notes, for those that approach
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| Lay comatose, it’s gun smoke on every coast
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| We believe in death notes, for those that approach
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| Lay comatose, it’s gun smoke on every coast
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| My mood swings like a noose, fuck ya juice
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| Strictly gun play put down your dukes
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| I produce evil and seduce
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| Diabolical thoughts for onslaught
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| Causing casualties, many ones afford inside your mental
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| Visitation from hitmen with mack tens, stacking when we sin
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| Bitch your block bodies drop, when we bend the corner
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| So killers are now up on ya
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| We plot paper with homies from Chi-Town to the hills of California
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| The aroma of gunsmoke, choke niggas
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| Worldwide, suicide you will confront, Suave House until the day I die
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| I get cocked like warlocks, the sinister doctor Bombay
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| Casting spells with this fully loaded AK
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| Bodies lay in ruin, dirty like urine in a drug test |
| Don’t stress, I’m just a lyrical murder vest
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| I project and see caskets for the words that I graph
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| Gats hold my signature nigga, here’s my autograph
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| (Death) This is your last notice, (Notes) ha ha ha ha ha
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| (Death) So tell me are you afraid, (Notes)
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| How does it feel looking down (Death) the eyes of death (Notes)
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| Ha ha ha ha (Death) ha ha ha ha ha (Notes) ah ha ha ha ha
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| Time to get the G’s, must get the dough and
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| Increase before I release the flows and expose it straight smoking
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| Shit like sticks, increasing grips, we taking trips to hit the streets
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| So niggas flip and dip to the scientist’s arranged lyrics, like chemists
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| (No gimmicks) I’m in to diminish ya like the wizard, who is it
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| It’s ol' Ste (and the L-O-K-E-Y) you can’t see we
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| It’s a lyrical drive-by, the scientist on the creep
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| I tweak now watch me take this level to the highest peak
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| To each his own, my songs is full of killers and cap-peelers
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| The mats and gats zippers you can ask the Sinister
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| About me, I slip though the night like hockey skis |
| To see Professor Lo-Key, cause mister clocking G’s
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| For fulfilling his prophecies, it’s the narrator
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| And it’s the black Noreaga slash international playa
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| (Death) Ha ha ha ha, now there you have it (Notes)
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| (Death) The scientist on a creep to kill (Notes)
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| (Death) This shit don’t get no realer than this (Notes)
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| So (Death) sinist-sinister, my nigga (Notes) the L-O-K-E-Y
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| (DIE!) |