| Now I’m gonna show you how the East Coast rocks --→KRS-One
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| Baby, baby, baby, baby, clap to this
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| It’s like that y’all, you don’t stop
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| Now I’m gonna show you how the East Coast rocks
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| ??? |
| are jumpin out of shoes and socks
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| Verse One: Dray, Books
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| Higgity-hey hun, check out the way I friggity-freak the track, umm
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| I diggity-do-ray-me-fah-so nigga me go like that, umm
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| wit the Books, iggity-oops, I get more poopcrocks for jingle
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| I giggity-gots the rhymes like ??? |
| ??? |
| got the wrinkle
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| Check the real wild, my ill style gets worked out like Bundy
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| I piggity-pack the skits, so save the shit, I’ll take you *?mundy?*
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| Yes it’s I, the yippity zippity bad boy with papers
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| I higgity-hump and rump cos I’m rough like sandpaper
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| So pucker up and whistle, I blast just like a pistol
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| and sharp like a thumbtack and kick like ninjitsu
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| I sling raps for hand claps and toe taps, I’m bound, silly creep
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| I leave a rapper with a single bound
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| Yes I rips up the West, I’m the best, I’m no jokin
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| I run up shit creek and freak the backstroke
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| So Books freak it, provide the funk alligator
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| Yo I’m out but I’LL BE BACK like Schwarzenegger
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| Wiggity-wait a minute, giggity-guess who, well it’s, umm, me The bumble B boogity woogity book the loopy
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| double O-K-iggity S, I’m slick
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| I giggity-got more stiggity-styles than Moby got Dick
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| Aw shit, I’m swingin it from the East Coast, sure
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| I don’t surf, but got more props than Pop Smurf
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| Who? |
| Me, yep, look at the way I’m slingin it to ya poppy
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| I riggity rock the crowd at the Grand Ole Opi
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| But when speakin upon myself, I stays private like Benjamin
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| Honey, I’ll knock the boots and if you’re tough I’ll knock the Timberland’s
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| Ooooooh, miggity-major Rolex and tick tock
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| I’m runnin my tongue with the quickness now I’m back like Alfred Hitchcock
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| I’m shod-dy, I’m swingin it like a San Diego Padre
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| Brooklyn’s in the house so motherfuck *?we go swavy?*
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| I don’t need to diss ya but excuse me Mister
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| I’m sinkin ya battleships just ask Professor or the Skipper
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| and downnnnnnnn
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| Interlude: (*Das EFX giving shoutouts to other East Coast rappers*)
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| Verse Two: Dray, Books
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| Yo I’m back, black, heavens-to-Betsy, time to get deuce
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| I take a bite outta crime, wash it down with some juice
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| I’m not the new kids, but I’m knockin blocks off, sonny
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| Yep I rock like the Stones cos I’m rollin in the money
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| So diggity-ask about, I know you digs me like a shovel
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| I kick straps for sport cos I’m short like Barney Rubble
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| Check the slang, boogity-bang, umm, I goes berserk
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| when I flex like Popeye, I fight like Cap’Kirk
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| So bozo, I’m knockin em out the box by the pair-em
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| High strung, my tongue got moves like Fred Astaire
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| Tally racker, I’m dapper, the rootin tootin rapper
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| I diggity-drops the funk so you can call me yippity-yapper
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| The slippery slick sister, stiggity-start the grammar
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| I’m comin like the Red Coats to toast an MC Hammer
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| So jumpin jahosa, that’s yesiree
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| The Books-in-reverse kicks a verse…
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| …like, aah, BBD
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| I whips it, I smacks it, I flips it with slick shit, when shit hits the fan, man, I slaps lips
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| like lipstick, I’m harder than a hard-on, never tend up like fiddles
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| I bust foots for kicks, eat up Trix and some Skittles
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| then I’ll giggle, hee-hee-ha
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| Higgity-Hallelujah to-to-dabber-day I’ll do ya
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| I’m the baddest, got more fans than Red Jarvis makes a cowboy
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| I skip, flip back to Dallas
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| He’s the Don, have you seen my grey poupon?
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| Bust this, we roll more spliffs than Cheech and Chong
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| We can do this, I kiggity-can't lose like Martha Lewis
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| Get the picture? |
| I rock upon misfa if I was you-is
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| Goddamn, I’m sittin on the bay by the dock
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| Smokin, strokin on my big fat cock
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| Cos spare you, breaker 1−9, what’s ya handle?
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| Cos now I got the siggity-sock soup like Campbell’s
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| and downnnnnnnnnnnn
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| Now I’m gonna show you how the East Coast rocks --→KRS-One
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| Baby, baby, baby, baby, clap to this
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| It’s like that y’all, you don’t stop |