| My introduction:
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| It’s such an unbelievable pleasure
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| For you to treasure;
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| And much needed too
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| Make it phat though
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| on another plateau-
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| You begining to begining to groove;
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| I do it natural
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| As we get Jazzy with classy shit
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| To make them hard ass rappers wanna blast me (buck buck)
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| Cause I exemplify a typified mac
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| In actin like the shit nigga
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| Mashin rappers with a passion
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| When I get Tip and Tribe flashion lyrics
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| I smash your spirits
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| Like a big disappointment
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| But this here shit will surprise ya
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| Devise a plan:
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| The pipsqueaks get tweaked
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| cause of the size of demand
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| So if you wanna measure up
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| then press your luck
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| Cause when I’m in the cut
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| Man there ain’t no catchin up
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| I bet ya never heard a nigga with a bigga this flow
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| Bigga this bro
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| gettin ate like a clitoris?
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| No.
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| I never could’a seen it-
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| I rip a rapper’s balls off
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| To make him scream when its convenient.
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| Hear ye hear ye
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| Clearly we’re the
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| Undisputed ones that you get mad at when you hear me
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| Pompous comp. |
| just barely even registered on the meter
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| Cause we the niggas that they checkin for
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| Me and you or, you and him
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| Ruinin' them
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| Doin men in
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| When I’m cluing them in
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| On the one
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| Ya two… three, four
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| Now niggas know I got lyrics out the anal
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| And any move that you make could be fatal
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| The poet that shows it:
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| and some of y’all niggas know it when ya
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| Grab the mic and you can’t recite
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| Yo that gets me irate when ya can’t debate
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| But wait- Now ya niggas think that I’m ya runnin' mate?
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| Naw phukk that, 'cause when I grab the baton I’m gone (zoom)
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| All around the track like a runnin maniac (damn)
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| You babblin your babblin son; |
| what the phukk?
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| Anybody here rap that doesn’t go buck?
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| But can you grab the mic and kick ill shit? |
| (like)
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| Stun’em with the verbs, instead of using clips.
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| Check it: I flip styles by the dozen;
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| I-could-even- that I was but I wasn’t
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| You MC’s are slipping into rigor mortis
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| Give it up please
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| And just support this;
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| I got styles that are legendary
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| Even in the clink
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| Lyrically I’m like,
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| What the phukk you think?
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| Cause I’m down with the D-E-L
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| So what the hell?
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| (Haha!)
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| I never come from the temple a simple rap
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| Cause your raps poor
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| I’m on track
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| I lap yours
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| Collapse yours
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| Elapse forever
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| You’re never gonna get better bitin' my friend
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| But I lend a hand helping
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| MC’s yelping like puppies (Arf! Arf!)
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| Their rhymes are simple
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| My rhymes are roughed up
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| Like a duffle bag
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| mags on my wheels squeal
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| Peel out towards your head
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| While others bust lead
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| That’s dead
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| I beat your head in the resin when the pipe hits the buds in my
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| chamber
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| My rhymes are never tamer
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| Perpetrators I’ma hurt ya later/after
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| On the path of danger
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| I got fangs not bangs
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| like a bitch which I use to puncture
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| With punctuation-
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| And mutation
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| Racin' like my thoughts
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| Bust shots to scatter
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| And my latter lets me elevate
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| Over MC’s that are hella fake
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| My reaction to your rappin' is laughin
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| It has been for askin they get their ass kicked
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| Cause they’re plastic
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| I’m bringing lyrical lacerations
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| That you’re tastin
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| Painful I mame foes
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| Metaphorically
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| Historically used the hip hop
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| To make your neck pop
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| Naw the eyes cause I kick the modern style
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| (Modern style, haha!)
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| The undisputed ones that you get mad at
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| The undisputed ones that you get mad at
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| The undisputed ones that you get mad at
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| When you. |
| .. grab the mike and you can’t recite |