| Jumped out of the 2nd floor of a record store
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| With a Treacherous Four cassette and a cassette recorder
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| In Ecuador with Edward Norton
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| Witness the metamorphosis
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| Of a legend growin' like an expert swordsman
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| From the Hessian war and
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| Hence the origin of the Headless Horseman
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| Born with the endorphins of a pathetic orphan
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| Endless source and reservoir
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| Of extension cords in dresser drawers
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| And deadbolts on the bedroom doors
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| And sexual torture kits kept in a separate storage bin
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| Excellent boyfriend
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| Use intercourse to settle scores
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| With women who have been vendettas towards men
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| Dickhead is forced in 'til there’s shredded foreskin
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| Reddish torn and they’re only bein' fed a portion
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| Bed sores and sore shins
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| Pregnant whores can get abortions
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| Fetish for stickin' metal forks in, self-absorption
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| Skeletor, I went to Hell and fell a floor
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| A predator, I’m headed for competitors
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| Better warn 'em, what I lack in tact and a set of morals
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| I make up for in metaphors like a cosmetic store
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| Stegosaurus, Chuck Norris with a thesaurus
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| Yes, of course, a mess of warrants
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| You want some? |
| Come and get some, boys!
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| I’m givin' Daniel Pantaleo a refresher course
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| On excessive force and pressure points
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| And dressin' George Zimmerman in a fluorescent orange
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| Dress and four inch heels to address the court
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| With a bullseye on his back, his whole chest and torso
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| Or left on the doorsteps of Trayvon’s dad as a present for him
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| In my present form I’m Desert Storm
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| Appetite for destruction there’s no suppressant for
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| Aggressive, forceful, and less remorseful in every morsel
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| Unpleasant, horrible; |
| hello, gorgeous!
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| The rebel with devil horns just fell off the yellow short bus
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| Met a contortionist, said, «When you wanna get sexual?»
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| She said, «However I fit in your schedule. |
| I’m flexible.»
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| Expired tags on the Saturn, got Catherine Bach
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| In the back in Daisy Dukes with the hazards on
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| At a traffic stop gettin' harassed, sign an autograph
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| For this asshole cop’s daughter
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| Laugh 'cause I called her a brat on it
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| He spat on it and brought it back lookin' half in shock
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| Had a heart attack and dropped dead
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| Started fallin' back with it
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| And got slapped with a Colin Kaepernick practice sock
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| One ball and half a dick, Apple Watch
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| Crack front axle, walked in a Bass Pro Shop with David Hasselhoff,
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| pulled Tabasco sauce out of my satchel
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| Knocked over a fisherman’s tackle box and *crash sound*
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| Asked if they had a laughin' stock
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| That was fuckin' stupid…
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| You got it twisted, all 'cause I offered this bitch
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| A doggie biscuit, you call me misogynistic
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| Bitch, get to massagin' this dick!
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| Like spas in this bitch, slob on it with gobs of lipstick
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| Got a shoppin' list for you to run some odds and ends with
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| It’s not a bitch on this earth I can be monogamous with
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| She’s non-existent
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| Robin Thicke with a throbbin' dick on some suave and slick shit
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| But I shout derogatives at bitches like fuckin' missile launches
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| Misfit, blond and nitwit
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| Like I’ve gone ballistic, with a frostin' tip kit
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| Screamed, «I hate blondes,"and became one, I’m optimistic
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| Love to start shit
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| Shovin' Clark Kent’s undergarments in the glove compartment
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| Of the bucket, bumpin' Bubba Sparxxx
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| I’m double parkin' up at Targets, trouble 'causer, a double crosser
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| Shadiest mothafucka you’ll ever come across
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| Olympic gymnast, been known for some assaults
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| A couple lawsuits, enough to cause a stomach ulcer
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| Same damn brain scan results as Rainman’s is
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| Something’s off, but when Dustin Hoffman’s
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| Dressin' up in your mummy costume
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| On stage dancin' to «Brain Damage,"what's the problem?
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| Nothing’s wrong, the name brand is back to reclaim status
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| Run the faucet, I’ma dunk
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| A bunch of Trump supporters underwater
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| Snuck up on 'em in Ray Bans in a gray van with a spray tan
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| It’s a wrap, like an Ace bandage
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| Don’t-give-a-fuck persona, to my last DNA strand
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| E&J in the waistband, at the VMAs with the stagehand
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| She wants kielbasa, pre-arrange an escape plan
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| Three-inch blade on point, like a See-and-Say
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| Consider me a dangerous man
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| But you should be afraid of this dang candidate
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| You say Trump don’t kiss ass like a puppet |
| 'Cause he runs his c&aign with his own cash for the fundin'
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| And that’s what you wanted
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| A fuckin' loose cannon who’s blunt with his hand on the button
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| Who doesn’t have to answer to no one—great idea!
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| If I was president
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| Gettin' off is the first order of business
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| Once I get in office
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| Second thing that’ll make me happy’s walkin' up to Uncle Sam
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| Naked, laughin', dick cupped in hand
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| Screamin', «Fuck safe sex!»
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| Throw a latex and an AIDS test at him
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| Tell Congress I run this land
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| And I want the rubber banned, and make it snappy
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| Addiction to friction and static
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| Addict who can’t escape the habit
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| Continue to chase the dragon
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| But as fate would have it, I walked up in major Magics
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| Dressed as the maintenance man
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| In a laser tag vest and a racin' jacket
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| With a gauge to blast it
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| And sped away in the station wagon
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| Stacey Dash’s and Casey Anthony’s
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| Crazy asses in the backseat
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| Throwin' Stayfree pads at me
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| Dead passenger in the passenger seat
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| Unfasten the safety latches
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| And slam on the brakes in traffic so hard
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| I snapped the relocation brackets for the monster tires
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| 'Finna get a murder case and catch it
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| Like you threw it at me encased in plastic
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| And send Dylan Roof through the windshield of the Benz
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| Until he spins like a pinwheel and begins feelin'…
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| Like a windmiller with a thin build while his skin’s peelin'
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| And skids 'til he hits a cement pillar
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| Swing for the fence like Prince Fielder
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| Knock it into the upper peninsula
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| You wanna go against 'zilla? |
| The Rap God
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| When will I quit? |
| Never been realer
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| The in-stiller of fear, not even a scintilla of doubt
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| Whose pens iller than Prince in a chinchilla
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| Or Ben Stiller in a suspense thriller
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| Revenge killer, avenge syllable binge
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| Fill a syringe, 'til I
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| Draw first blood
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| Even pop shit on my pop shit, and it’s popular
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| Couldn’t be more awkwarder
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| Cause you’re innocence I robbed you of
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| It’s my fingers that got stuck up
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| Taught ya ta, not give a
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| Slapstick, hockey puck
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| The broad hunter with the sawed off
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| Like an arm when it’s lopped off of ya
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| But I’m not gonna, get the shotgun
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| Or the Glock, I’m gonna opt for the ox
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| Cause I’m into objects that are sharp when I shop
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| And it’s not a shock, I’m such an obnoxious fucker
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| The Rock Hudson of rock 'cause who would have thought
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| This much of a cocksucker to go across the buttocks of Vivica Fox with a box
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| cutter
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| That was for 50, little slap on the wrist be warned
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| I’m unrevealin' quickly
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| My squabbles, I’m grappling with your time traveling with me
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| Try and follow, as I wobble, relapse into history, with a flask of the whiskey
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| Tip it back then I’m twisting wine bottles
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| Like what happened to Chris Reeves' spine column
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| That’s the plan of attack when I’m fixing my problems
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| Wish my chest wasn’t having to get these rhymes off 'em
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| But the fact that I have so many rappers against me mind boggles
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| And why I haven’t come back on these faggots who diss me is
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| More of a spectacular mystery than a fucking Agatha Christie crime novel
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| But my patience is wearing thin
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| Swear I been contemplatin' rubbing shit in your face 'til I smear it in
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| Diss you in every lyric until you fear the pen
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| And never appear again
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| If you actually had fuckin' careers to end
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| But then I think of Molly Qerim and I steer 'em in that direction and forget my
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| ideas for them
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| Molly, I’m gone off you
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| Man, light some kush
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| You’re my first take, I’ll nail you
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| Can’t lie, I gush
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| If I won you over, you would be the grand prize
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| I’m entranced by your looks, come and give the Shady franchise a push
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| You can get it in the can like some Anheuser Busch
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| Jeans too small, least three pant sizes tush
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| Mushed against your damn side, your puss
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| And thighs are squished
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| What kind of attires that?
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| I’m ready to be rode
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| Psychopath, bet you we’ll get it poppin' like a flat
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| Light the match to ignite the wrath
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| Got knives to slash and slice hermaphrodites in half
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| Piper Chapmans might just have to picket me
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| Like a scab
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| Hard to describe in fact
|
| Startling violent perhaps
|
| Are things that come to mind as soon as I start spitting rhymes like that
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| And you aren’t really surprised at that |
| But as far as these lines I rap
|
| And these bars, wouldn’t dial it back if I star 69ed the track
|
| Why am I such a dick? |