| Forty-eight bars to Mars in my pension
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| Never had a problem given my dimensions
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| Only had demensia given how i black out
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| Given how I nard walk bars 'till they tap out
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| Maxed out metabars, Two Tone Rebel shit
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| Now i put it everywhere, I be going Halilavić
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| I be going hella quick, I be going Ella Fitz
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| Put me in your record store I could sell a hell of it
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| I could sell a pawn to a pawn shop, buy the pawn shops
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| Sell that pawn back to the public, let that pawn rock
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| Buy it back on the cheap, sell that fucking pawn stock
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| IPO like whoa 'till that fucking pawn drops
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| Buy it back on the cheap again, cheaper than fuck!
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| That fucking pawn is going deep again, spit out your gum
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| That line graph going step again, twiddle your thumbs
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| I’ll turn a pawn to a POB while she’s twerking for none
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| Zero signs for the evil eye keep up your guard
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| Those whew bangers in the back, keeping everyone charged
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| Everything dark, everything grey
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| Everything stays a little less clear than it was in the day
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| That nighttime feeling stealing what we had on the page
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| I’ll turn a pen to a weapon when I’m fighting for days
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| --Yeah
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| I’ll turn a pen to a weapon when I’m fighting for days
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| I said I never knew much, I only knew me
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| I know I have flaws, I know that I bleed
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E
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| Yo, I got a pen full of ink, a nous on the feed
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| I’m back on the scene, crispy and clean
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E
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| Two Tone Rebel shit, yeah, I say it always
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| Wish I had it back then walking through the hallways
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| Wissahickon High School, shouts to the Trojans
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| Shouts to Quimby Joe, truce I owe them
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| Understood my non-swag-swag like hey!
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| Took me to the side, broke it down like yay!
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| Understood my steez was more than 12th grade
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| And I never really studied to muddy my good name
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| I’m a mo' fucking Wallace, unpolished on the rocker
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| Used to be awkward now I’m all real proper
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| Like poppa no choppers, Il Postino
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| I’ll be the five man cause they rate extremeo
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| My tunes might boom, I’m a Maximor
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| I might go palt-plat like my Maxima
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| With a G4 high you can match the boy
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| An astronaut without any asterisks
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| I’m off again, pain, gain, sweat to win
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| Still put some THC in my oxygen
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| And brush the dirt off with an oxipen
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| And pen these lyrics with a laxative
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| Cause I’m the shit, swags back, that’s the kid
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| It’s getting pretty fucking near when the scales get tipped
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| I said It’s pretty fucking near when the scales get tipped
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| I said I never knew much, I only knew me
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| I know I have flaws, I know that I bleed
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E
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| Yo, I got a pen full of ink, a nous on the feed
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| I’m back on the scene, crispy and clean
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E
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| I let that beat knock when I’m running on E |