| Ride on Blue Boy dipped in a Uni
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| Dickin on a squad car, vickin on a fully
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| Sick as a Sunni, strapped with a bobby
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| Pullin on the pin, he Tutankhamun
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| Boots to the ceiling, boostin the serum
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| So sincere, brutes new to the feeling
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| Ridin on the old scene, buck if you hear me
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| Bucks for the fabric of your fiber
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| Bricked, dips, blicks, big, brighter
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| Bees in a trap? |
| No, bees in a hive
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| Gee is for Geezus, Gs and a nine
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| Oh is for O.G.s, grease in the eyes
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| Crease in the khakis, piece to the side
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| Forgotten youth when older mutants played Magneto
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| We believed the strip and never plagiarized their credo
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| Fashion cutter for the fascist, dirty-lipped and truly goony
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| Looney Tune Schooly Ds come off cartoony
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| No King Cloak and Dagger, Lavabanger Legacy
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| No anonymity, no forced validity
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| False Hopes, we got close, man, we got ghost
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| Tough shows and rough roads until every sign said, GO!
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| Take the skins
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| Hang em on the walls
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| Not trophies, just reminders
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| What is left here when we fall
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| Ay, I’m pushing up on your tempo
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| She too stoned Nintendo
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| I’m Vint Cerf, she Pink Floyd
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| I’m jumpin out the window
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| Sike, I’m fly, I float aight right by
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| Cut my own moat
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| Get by with my chose fam
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| Dismantle thrones
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| All the fuck in your station
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| All up in your dark
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| Awkward in ya Marc Maron conversations
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| Call em out the park
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| Hangin out then Van Halen cabs in your city
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| All up on your block opposite the cops
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| Y’all should all fuck with me
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| Style like a Cadillac
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| Crash with a battle axe handy
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| Gucci store fire on the couture
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| Then planes, trains, and automobiles, I’m John Candy
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| Y’all just can’t stand me
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| I make em feel ridiculous
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| Pickin apart they postures put together meticulously awful
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| In the air, hostile
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| The fingernails, watch em
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| Sit and stare, box em if I gotta
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| Panic is the fashion
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| I arrow to the action
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| Pied Piper through all types a shit
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| Types like me y’all ain’t fuckin with
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| Go get it
|
| Or go without
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| You going nowhere
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| Run that shit into the ground
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| Go get it
|
| Or go without
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| We go for broke
|
| And run that shit into the ground
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| Struck by lightning
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| With a hand in the sand
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| Came to with a fist fused in glass
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| Closed the circuit skull full of white light, mouthful of ash
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| Sparks on the pavement
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| Dragging the chain
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| Anchor’s off, man, lost it again
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| Steady on gotta push through the rain
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| Weather in the veins, came for this
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| Train for this, fuck
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| Made for this, pray they miss, duck
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| Duck gray duck gets up and running
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| Rest fall back like a bridge in London
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| Brand new brakes I never touch em
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| You’re all spin move, you’re doing too much
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| Rental car, trick cigar
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| I’m just laughing while that whole thing blows up
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| Looking like I’m Joakim Noah
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| Black mask, take your gas money
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| My name is Sims but call me David Lynch, I make em act funny
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| I ain’t afraid to change lines, state, date, or face
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| I’m option two when you skate or die but still survive on basslines
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| At least for the next eight months
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| Then I change up like it ain’t much
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| You do the Roger Rabbit in Shape Ups
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| Still blabbing bout some frame up vision
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| MN living gray duck risen
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| Nay fucks given, way subliminal
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| Class-war criminal trying to make my stance more pivotal
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| See what is left is suspect
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| The Pepsi Gen went crystal meth
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| And punk rock dads scream rap is dead
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| I laughed until I lost my chill
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| I’m really real, half Built to Spill half Kill at Will
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| Half shark alligator and my Philly filled
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| Mill City kid in the field
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| Gritty is in the blood, proof is in the track
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| Fifty in the tank, on you like a Mac Truck
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| Roll with a ton on my back
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| Better back up fast
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| Go get it
|
| Or go without
|
| You going nowhere
|
| Run that shit into the ground
|
| Go get it
|
| Or go without
|
| We go for broke
|
| And run that shit into the ground |