| Fun, even funner
 | 
| I’m the gunner sub-machine gun
 | 
| It don’t seem right, that they don’t get my theme right
 | 
| They don’t know me
 | 
| So we move forward
 | 
| More words & phrases
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| My style amazes
 | 
| Come into the scene with the means to rip shit
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| My brain’s power packed with the proper equipment
 | 
| So step
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| I come inta the area to bury ya
 | 
| I compose the flows
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| Makin' people merrier
 | 
| Never the less, I sever the flesh
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| With a razor
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| Reserve the major beef
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| I’mma slay ya, hey
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| You never came across a person like me
 | 
| I never instigate
 | 
| First come strike me
 | 
| Then I’ll flip
 | 
| And rip clothing, and I’m loathing
 | 
| MCs who front like I don’t know things
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| Uh uh
 | 
| Check again
 | 
| I get wreck again
 | 
| On the down low
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| Because you sound slow
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| Retarded MCs get neglected
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| & check it
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| Anytime I hafta show a foe
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| I’mma flex it
 | 
| Then I exit
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| With my records & my next shit
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| Prepared, so be scared
 | 
| I strike unexpected
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| I write rhymes in sections
 | 
| Testin' my slang
 | 
| I bang MCs with these
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| & make 'em hang
 | 
| Dangle, what’s ya angle?
 | 
| When I strangle and choke
 | 
| I hold Bennedicts by their throat
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| Until they sing notes like a canary
 | 
| Fairy, or genies
 | 
| We slipped out
 | 
| They never seen me bust his face
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| I like bass when it hums
 | 
| And that sums up my properties for the dum-dums
 | 
| Someone need to check him
 | 
| Deck him
 | 
| Slam him
 | 
| And put him in the bushes
 | 
| So 'shush' kids
 | 
| No one needs to know
 | 
| I’ll proceed & go into
 | 
| And then tell ya what I’ve been through
 | 
| «In one ear, right out the other
 | 
| Go tell ya sister, go tell ya mother
 | 
| In one ear, right out the other
 | 
| Go tell ya father, go tell ya brother
 | 
| In one ear, right out the other.»
 | 
| I would feel comfortable
 | 
| If your front would go elsewhere
 | 
| Or disappear
 | 
| Hear my specific style that’s speaking
 | 
| Creeking, making noises in the nightime
 | 
| When I write rhymes
 | 
| I look out my window
 | 
| It’s a bright day
 | 
| And I might display my skills in the hills
 | 
| Or, in a different neighborhood
 | 
| Cause my flavor could
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| Be the best, so lets test this
 | 
| Yes, bitch
 | 
| I saw you posted at the pool table
 | 
| I could never talk to you
 | 
| But now a fool’s able
 | 
| With the best of luck
 | 
| And, hey, how do you impress a duck?
 | 
| By pullin' out a wad of bucks
 | 
| Shucks
 | 
| I need to stop this
 | 
| I plop this, played this
 | 
| I murder MCs
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| & leave their pens inkless
 | 
| Do you think this is a twist
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| A turn, I insist
 | 
| To burn those foes who haven’t learned
 | 
| To keep they mouths closed
 | 
| Guiness Stout flows
 | 
| Through your intestines, when life is depressin'
 | 
| I built my foundation using patients
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| Some didn’t hear us
 | 
| Some had to state it… |