| Spit the rudest flow, never stoop low for stupid hoes
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| Fresher than ya new clothes, Winter in Chicago, boy
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| I’m too cold
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| I’m too bold, attackin' like I’m Cujo
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| How many times can that gun burst if it’s from Earth?
|
| How many stupid food-colored whips are you hopping out in one verse
|
| Tell me again, how many (Ladies!) are you slayin'?
|
| When you really watchin PornHub clips with fifty-two percent ratings
|
| My mind’s all-smart, it’s in the ball park as Jean-Paul Sartre
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| Yours is in the parking lot of Walmart
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| Bagging Duck Dynasty wall-art
|
| You claiming that you move the clubs, but only in a golf cart
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| Czar, hold the mic
|
| Like Picasso paint a picture in 1080p
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| (Tell 'em) High res, wide lens, you ain’t screen
|
| Crowd goin' wild like they screamin' for they favorite team
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| Amphetamines give shakes to the fiends
|
| He’s the General Zod, fleein' from a federal charge
|
| Next surgery — sue due to head nods
|
| Certified worker, sir, I salute the god
|
| The next generation Jean-Luc Picard
|
| You know, this is sort of well-recorded L
|
| Nosey neighbors tell the board of health that the corpses smell
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| In the bloody Jordans to Orson Welles
|
| Ain’t nobody tryna hear you like an orphan’s yell
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| I’m rugged
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| Like a tortoise shell, you rugged like a stuffed one
|
| You bust guns, never flow cold as ice
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| We keep the merchandise
|
| Movin' like a hundred U-hauls
|
| Screw y’all, call me a bully
|
| The industry is like the school hall
|
| Who are y’all? |
| You’re goof balls
|
| Dudes rockin' RuPaul shawls
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| (CZARFACE) kids, what y’all call raw
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| Deviatin' septums
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| Rippin' out goozles
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| Walkin' out the winner
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| Bein' the best
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| We snack on danger and we dine on death! |