| Up in them five-star tellies and two mic rhymes
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| Be them average MC’s of the times
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| Unlike them, we craft gems
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| So systematically inclined to pen lines
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| Without sayin a producer’s name, all over the track
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| Yeah I said it! |
| What you need to do is get back
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| To reading credits, we them medics
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| Alphabetically stuck on that english
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| And knock it out before we pour
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| That sure shot more rock co. |
| kane flow
|
| From the top of the key, the 3 Villain
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| Been on in the game as long as you can wheelie your Schwinn
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| Turn the corner spinnin, bust that ass and get up
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| Dust off the mask, whoever laugh give him a head up
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| He got jumped, it pumped his adrenaline
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| He said it made him tougher than a bump of raw medicine
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| To write all night long, the hourglass is still slow
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| Flow from Hellborn to Free Power like Wilco
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| And still owe bills, pay dues forever
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| Slay huge when it comes to who’s more cleverer
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| Use to wore a leather goose ski with a fur collar
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| Hand charged a fee for loose leaf words for dollar
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| Ya heard? |
| Holla — broad or dude, we leave food
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| Eat your team for sure, the streets sure seem rude
|
| For fam like the Partridges, pardon me for the mix-up
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| Battle for your Atari cartridges or put your kicks up
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| It’s a stick up
|
| Now put your blix up, these Riddick Bowe cuts
|
| Is swoll like penile flicks, give 'em 20
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| The danger in his eyes’ll let you know he’s a brawler
|
| Bring your tallest champs like that much taller
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| Ten pounds heavier, one step ahead of it
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| Vocab, stamina, style’s all irrelevant
|
| Camps and cliques, units, squad crews and clans
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| Even your tongues’ll fuck around and leave your mouth
|
| Doom brung that bum, there goes that news van again
|
| Act like you knew like Toucan Sam an' 'em
|
| He eat rappers like part of a complete breakfast
|
| Your rhymes ain’t worth the weight of they cheap necklace
|
| String 'em up, bring 'em up under whack junk snack
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| And get that out your hand, punk, jump and get your dunk smacked
|
| Foul, we all know the rules bro
|
| You slow, you blow the soup on your fools, his Impulse like Yugo
|
| You go lights, camera, action with no makeup
|
| We De La to the death, or at least until we break up
|
| Here’s a couple of nice guys who finished first
|
| So nice try, but the prize is ours dispersed
|
| They say the good die young, so I added some
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| Bad-ass to my flavor to prolong my life over the drum
|
| Everyone cools off from bein hot
|
| It’s about if you can handle bein cold or not!
|
| And we was told to hop for no one, s’what I dig bout Prince Paul
|
| We stayed original ever since y’all
|
| First to do a lot of things in the game, but the last to say it
|
| No need to place it on a scale to weigh it
|
| And don’t do it for the plays or to raise the bar
|
| Yet it’s raised anyway, it’s so amazing, are
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| The three L.I. |
| brothers from a other way of thinkin
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| Hey your lady’s winkin, I think you need to control that aura
|
| Or I can hold her
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| The elements are airborne, I smell the success
|
| (Yo let’s cookie cut the shit and get the gingerbread, man)
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| Sacrifice mics and push drugs to these rappers
|
| Puff ponies 'til I turn blue in the lips
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| Sippin broads like 7-Up (ahh) so refreshing
|
| I think I’ll pop these verse like first dates to birthdates
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| September 2−1, 1−9, 6−8
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| Too old, should I? |
| Too bad, too late |