| Well, Debbie thinks this is all about her biological clock
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| And I
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| She stopped screaming long enough to tell you that?
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| Huh? |
| No no no no, no, the other Debbie
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| Debbie the teacher
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| Oh, you mean — Black Debbie!
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| Whoa whoa whoa whoa, why is she «Black» Debbie?
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| No, not in a bad way
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| It’s just to tell them apart because she’s, black!
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| True—DOOM rolled on through with a whole crew
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| That stole on you for holding old brew, who told you?
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| Even if it’s crap, mind your own business
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| They raps ain’t got no gift like a lonely Christmas
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| Real phony with beats that’s hardly fresh
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| How they manage to deal is anybody’s guess
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| Yours is as good as mine, she’s sure fine
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| From the hood where you squeeze your nine off the free cheese line
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| All you saw was a do a bee’s line
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| To where she stood and sipped the Nehi Grape, the sweet kind
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| Circle you, thicker by de-sign
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| Be-hind swingin like bring it back, come rewind
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| Uhh, excuse me boo
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| She stuck out her tongue, it was purple number two
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| FDA approved played it smoother than a doo rag
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| What a brother gotta do to get a taste a some of you?
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| Bagged, and he don’t mean coach
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| Then she saw the mask, acted like she seen a roach
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| The mirror shine reflect colors like your CD’s
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| Show love to others, we all brothers like the Bee Gees
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| All except the broads and you
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| Hold your applause, they break God’s laws and who pays?
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| The taxpayer that’s who
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| Catch a rapper by his toe and smack off his tattoos
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| That’s gonna leave a bruise
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| Leave 'em grievin blues like believin in evening news
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| They must be eatin glue
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| Heave it all back and we even Steven Sue
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| Sprinkle lyrics like seasoning beef stew
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| And sneezin all in it after breathin in the flu
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| Get a clue, his reasoning is askew
|
| As to all the feverin and heavin up goo
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| Either that or, dude
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| Leave your girl around this man whore and she’s too screwed
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| Just in case she’s in a «what you wanna do» mood
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| Bring your plate to the Metal Face and get your food chewed
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| Tastes like chicken
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| He wastes no time like the bassline kickin in
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| Or like a lace eye with you through thick and thin
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| Raw humor, face pie to a frickin chin
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| New York’n, a hell of a finer town
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| Choose your words wisely from the Boogie Down to Chinatown
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| Or be found with a hole in your designer gown
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| In the role of public opinion, it earned a minor frown
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| If you think you’re slick, you might can whisper, uh
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| As a few good men set sights to link with your chick
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| You have to find a new hen fight to drink your liq'
|
| Ten years later, see how Enzyte’ll shrink your, wallet
|
| As you wallow in a sorrow pit
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| Cheers, is that your beer kid? |
| Then swallow it
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| Or get chased by the Sandman, on some Apollo
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| Flow so weird, his own peers couldn’t follow it
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| On the phone, he sounded like a real paid
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| Then we met in person, he was three shades blacker
|
| That’s why he saved money over ball and chain dames
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| We all the same, no callin names
|
| I’m as smart as him!
|
| What? |
| I got Ph. D's in four scientific disciplines
|
| Really? |
| (Why do you think they call me Dr. Quinn?)
|
| Um, I just thought that was a nickname
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| You know like, Dr. Dre, Eastside! |