| Check it out
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| We’re gonna take it back to 1991 right about now because I don’t think a lot of
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| kids out here remember their roots
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| Check
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| Migraine assault or halt a slug that tries
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| To catapult above my lyrical exercise
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| Critical pesticides will rest inside your legs, chest and eyes
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| Giving excess demise
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| To those who pose a threat
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| I’m so deceptive
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| Schemes of rhyme climb, finally flows connected
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| Don’t neglect it once, flows corrected dunce
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| Who’s in interpretaion of elevation is a quest
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| For blunts and herbs
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| Steadily punching herbs
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| Dead in they headpiece
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| Repetitive MCs
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| I fed 'em a leadpiece consisting
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| Of tongue twisting hollow tips
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| That penetrate their hypothalamus
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| For trying to follow this
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| Long and windy road
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| That leads to cerebal kids to try and decode
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| My speech patterns
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| When someone interupts my train of thought
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| I leave Saturn
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| Teleport back to the streets
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| Mad and depressed from the stress that reality brings
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| Stay away from saturation sort of like a calorie thing
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| I battle myself with the lights off, on my T La Rock
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| If you were my nuts
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| You’d love yourself
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| 'Cause you would be the jock
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| That you ride, more flavour then sodium chloride
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| I bust your platinum plaque, in flodium floride
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| In the gums of chums who brush to crush germs
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| And don’t have bust jerks and work on crush grooves
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| Flush dudes down the toilet
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| For acting shitty
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| When I ain’t producing, rhyming or cutting, I’m smacking titties
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| Or acting silly, I tend to smash committees
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| Who come half committed and dumb surpass your city
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| With one passionately comprised verse, your eyes hurt
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| When I made a snack of your brain, I ordered fries first
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| Yo, Perce, tell 'em what time it is
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| Of my knowledge or wisdom a lyrical rhythm’ll give 'em a migraine
|
| MCs are dog shit terrible
|
| I walk with bearable flows that evolve into hysterical throws
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| Of rage
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| I chose a page that arose from the olden days
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| And put your face in a molten glaze
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| Behold the maze, it is a result of phrases
|
| Ultimatums are made when the culture stays
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| In phases that keep vultures paid
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| Amazing cultivations leave 'em dazed and ultrawasted
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| I open up my vault of statements
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| The hall, the weightless
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| And catapult abrasive basement tapes
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| Into the basis of your basic fakes
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| Basic training making sure my frames in shape
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| Refraining from fracturing the Freudian fragments of my brain
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| Train rhyme is giving 'em sodium tablets for nutrients
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| You three in the corner
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| Oughta
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| Be a--
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| Shamed of yourselves like squirts of diarrhea
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| Missing the toilet
|
| Pissing on foiled pests
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| Meditate at pedal pace to let the thugs uncoil best
|
| I hoist fresh voice networks to let jerks know
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| They can’t enter the exploits of an expert
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| I exert forces to make your head and neck work
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| Or shift in accordance with a beat that’s undistorted
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| In fact it’s crispness, G Rap’s lisp recieved faxes
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| Containing blueprints of my vocal axis
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| Poking axes caused more than a mind strain
|
| My knowledge or wisdom a lyrical rhythm’ll give 'em a migraine
|
| Yeah, we just chillin' in the lab, me, myself and I
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| This goes out to everybody who loves hip hop as much as I do
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| Y’all stay up
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| Peace |