| On the southside. |
| Ha gon get down with that get down let me spit rounds
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| This is how that shit sounds check it out ch’all. |
| Ha
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| It’s the, metaphysicals some say the score the revolution therefore
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| I have come, a calm before the storm
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| Words are born formed drawn in the brain
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| Sorn scorn by the pourin' rain
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| But I can stand it seldom do I feel stranded
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| Granded I stand with the style that is free
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| I’m the Mandela ask Nelson brothers love me
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| I lay it lovely I’m ugly bogus on the mic
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| I strike like a teacher rappers are line
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| Stand in line with they signs tryin' to picket
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| They pick it the way I kick it
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| Cause with it I’m not wicked cause that’s malignant
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| I use my figments which is vivid
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| And give it to ya baby like love without no limit
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| I have no limits no gimmicks no image don’t mimick
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| I’m finished no minutes to be timid
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| Which shit stick should I spit with?
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| I’m the nitwit that shit sick I stick with and kick with
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| The crew I clique with that’s who I sit witha and trip with
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| And sip with the buds are lifted and gold digified
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| And hit without equipment I’ve often been depicted
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| On the solid when it likwit
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| Yo this is shit is for my man Honda |