| Straight out the red depths of Hell bringin clips and diseases
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| I walk on water with my own two feet nigga, FUCK JESUS!
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| Celph Titled’s a God with many followers
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| Who’s sick enough to choke a pitbull with his own dog collar
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| I rep the NYC, fuck bitches and sip Remy
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| Pack more notes than Denny’s and conduct symphonies
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| You fuckin with me, you won’t live to see tomorrow, faggot!
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| I keep it gangsta, storin bodies in a dusty attic
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| You can’t talk cuz of the duct tape you fuck face
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| The Demigodz from Chrome Depot blazin with .38's
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| My clique is famous for the way we spit and rock flows
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| Leave the spot blown and send bitch-niggaz to (?)
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| Beware! |
| Emcees out there, drop ya mics
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| Your talkin might result in the loss of life
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| And also might, known to crush blocks of ice
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| The spot it bright, 'til the point you lost ya sight
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| Cuz I’m startin fights, like that bully in class
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| Sayin, When the bell rings bitch, I’m kickin your ass!
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| I spit at stage shows where herbs and weirdos
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| screamin Oh No like Nate, Mos Def, and Pharaohe
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| It’s a rare flow, put your cameras on zoom
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| Cuz it’s tight like all the Klumps crammed in a small room
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| Fudge is the shit, been busy puttin cups to my lips
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| Gettin it outta me, gave the weed a couple of hits
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| Mary Jane lately, grew some succulent tits
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| But everybody’s hittin it, ended up dumpin that bitch
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| Mastered the art of reverse physcology
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| Gimme a minute with a chick and she’ll exchange a suck for a lick
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| Broke nigga — give bartenders a buck for a tip
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| Take a sip and give it back say, spruce it up a tidbit
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| Who in the fuck?! |
| Rappers hidin under they trucks
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| Jumpin through windows, actin like lightning just struck
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| Holdin the do', cuttin they 'fros, wearin disguises
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| Exercising, puttin on weight, increasing sizes
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| Packin they tools and rollin in schools learnin dialect
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| Ebonics, that ain’t workin no more, we need some bias shit
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| Yaggfu, Demigodz alliance
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| We colossal like Paul Bunyan and Jolly Green Giant
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| Yo I’m that fly gringo that chicks love to deep throat
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| With tracks so hot, you’ll pass out from heat strokes
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| I beat foes on both west and east coasts
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| The freak hoes are rhymin on Luke’s Peep Show
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| I’ll crush ya ego, embarass you in ya home town
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| So forget the fame, you won’t wanna be known now
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| I throw down with you half-ass rappers
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| And stuff your garbage rhymes inside trash compactors
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| I’m a Demigod, what’d you expect? |
| From a man
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| who met Mother Nature, looked under her dress and wasn’t impressed
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| The same stupid son of a bitch who doesn’t respect
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| The Angel of Death’s request when he comes to collect
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| Run in and check, my cassette — it’s a slight chance
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| you might see, demons escapin from in the deck, and now that I…
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| But when I increase the rudeness of my evil music
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| It leaves the stupid, people skewered and leaks ya fluids
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| into the streets and sewers, if by chance God sees me do it
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| Should shoot a big hole down to Hell and lead me to it
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| My microphone of omens dismantles opponents components
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| In moments leaving you and your cipher with my condolence
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| When I’m heated to max, you’ll be sufferin’from repeated attacks
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| Defeated you cats with fatter tracks, faggots collapse
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| When they be hearin’collabs over the wax
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| Like subway rats we walk on underground tracks
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| I’ve come to an overstandin’that you lack in what I’m excellin’in
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| Professional at propellin’adrenaline
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| In fact, Open Mic attacks in stereo sound
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| Pull out my dick and I’ll piss all on your burial ground
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| You better not clown or ever try to fuck with my committee
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| Cuz the Demigodz are comin’like a storm to your city
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| Yo we could go to war right now, go call ya brethren
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| Man the fight’s on, I’ll see you in Hell — from Heaven
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| Reppin everything I write tight, said it for a long time
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| I’m great in my eyes, I’m a legend in my own mind
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| The floor is out for ya set, that ain’t respect
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| The crowd ain’t happy you wreck, they happy you left
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| They mad upset, pissed that they came for you rhymin
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| They barely survived your set, families huggin and cryin
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| Don’t come back, the rap competition’s gettin hurt up Be with an inch of ya life, and then an inch further |
| Been heard of, this crew takin over this art
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| Ahead of you in skill, flow, and popularity charts
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| Mo’known to flip plus the skill be sick
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| The type of cat that show his dick before he spit
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| I’ll rush ya crew, but nigga fuck the rules
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| With trust ya lose, anything I touch I bruise
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| Now with Demigodz, I battle with any squad
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| I spit plenty bars, plus ball like Penny Har'
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| So if you thinkin of stick this man for the dividends
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| Catch a quick two bullet blaze in ya abdomen
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| Yo, lemme show these cats what rockin a mic’s about
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| I’ll put ya life in doubt like the biker style, whipin out
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| You’re a bitch, the reason why your strikin out’s
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| Cuz, girls who get with you think they’re dykin out
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| You backpackers home typin out, a verse for ya title bout
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| While I’m in a Lambroghini with James? |
| Candafini?
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| Rappers try to be me but they can’t get my look down
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| My bumpy knuckles leave this industry shook down
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| When I rhyme, I’m so ahead of my time
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| That if we battled at 10, get there by 20 at 9
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| I’m as heavy as Spawn, Esoteric savage B
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| I’ll spit bars at rappers like a chocolate factory
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| Yo whatchu known for? |
| Killin rappers off like a famine
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| The Last Standing, like Bruce Lee’s daughter Shannon
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| It took some time plannin but I’m finally here
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| Just droppin knowledge on ya brain, and puttin flavor in ya ear
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| At the start of my career, people said they wasn’t feelin me But now everybody think’s I’m Keith Murray’s 'Mini-Me'
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| A critically acclaimed harsh heartbreaker
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| Got into a slugfest and broke out the salt shaker
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| Can’t you see my mental is creating verbal force fields?
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| Elevating spiritual, my physical is more real
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| Reality is 99% perception mostly
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| Mag-NIFICENT, my MISSILES SENT
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| Heat-seeking bombs DETONATING, I’m invading-VADING
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| The space station, face me, A-P A-T H-E-T-I-C (I-C)
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| Now that the light has come to meeee!
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| Owww, the tornado, natural disaster, lacerating rappers
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| Known as Apathetic magnetic power attracting masses
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| Masked with gastric acids, turnin ya flesh to ashes
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| 2002 Demigodz’ll crush you wack asses! |