| I’m liable to start a violent spark with a silent thought
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| I disgust you like dialogue from The Shop to The Wired Frog
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| Night club, shit, I was taught if your CD’s on fire
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| You had to put it out yourself like Highland Park, no fire department
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| So you might not hear sirens at all
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| But don’t be alarmed if I sound off
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| Something just ain’t right with me, dawg
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| A martyr on a private charter, whose life could be harder?
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| Widely regarded highly, bite me, sweetheart, I’m slightly retarded
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| But tonight I’m starting shit, I’m feeling self righteous
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| I might just hop in a mosh pit on some Mike Tyson and Pac shit
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| Looking to box with anybody, disorderly conduct
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| I’ll fuck around and snort a key and pick a fight with a locksmith
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| Fan of the LOX, bananas, manic, I’m going in shock
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| Frantic, I’m trapped in a closet
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| Panic attack cause I’m claustrophobic
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| No, faggot, I mean I can’t maneuver from movement
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| Cause I have no room for improvement
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| I’m practically squashed, unpacked it and boxed it
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| Toxic, hands are arsenic, flammable bars, examine the content
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| Bar exam, start of insanity
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| Charles Hamilton slash Manson and Bronson
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| Animal snarls, cannibal jaws
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| Shark mandibles, lambs to the slaughter
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| Looking scamp as Hannibal stalking
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| Anthony Hopkins with his hands in his pockets
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| Black out, Zach Galifianakis, gallons of Vodka
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| But that gal has some knockers
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| I bet you they ring a bell when I come back and I’m conscious
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| What happened, doc? |
| I passed out again
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| Alcohol’s making me break into vacant’s naked
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| Stole a Magnum box and bag Cirocs in back of a Datsun
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| Fell asleep watching Fear Factor and Scare Tactics
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| Too close to the StairMaster
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| Poked a hole in the air mattress and popped it
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| Woke up shortly thereafter, hungover
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| No underwear, grasping a Bayer Aspirin and dropped it
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| Air Max in my closet, preposterous Nikes made out of ostrich
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| And the cross stitching is a cross mixing
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| Of a rhinoceros, possum skin, giraffe and a dolphin
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| Fin Dockers, OshKoshes, drop crotches
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| Swatch watches and sneakers matches with the Parkers
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| But it’s like being overstaffed at a boxing gym
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| With all these trainers, but I don’t have any boxers
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| And I’m standing here naked, hangover, still wasted
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| Like paper you write raps on, obnoxious
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| Yo, why does it always sound like I’m grabbing my nostrils?
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| Fuck that, I’ll battle 'em all, I’ll battle a mall
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| I’ll stand there and yell that at a wall
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| Until the mannequin doll scatter and the inanimate objects
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| That I’m battering all shatter and fall
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| Cause I hear the track and I’m starting to get f*cking amped
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| I’mma spark plug, I’m like the car with the cables
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| Hooked up to my f*cking back, I’m a Duracell
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| But I sure as hell got it backwards cause y’all could get jumped
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| And I’d catch the battery charge, but
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| I got a hunch like your back when it’s arching
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| When I start attacking your squadron
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| You’ll feel like MasterCard when I’m charging
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| So take a swipe at me, I’m coming straight at you
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| Like Clay Matthews from the Green Bay Packers
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| So get the sack of Wisconsin
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| That’s nutbag that I’m talking, who am I kidding?
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| You faggots are all gonna do my bidding
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| Don’t get dragged to the auction
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| Neiman Marcus, bags of Vuitton and all
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| I’ll push a b*tch into oncoming traffic, just watch this
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| Stretched, tinted, black sedan my a*s
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| See how mad you act when I drop you off at Saks Fifth Ave
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| In a f*cking taxi cab to go shopping
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| Affable guy next door is laughable
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| My next whore’s gonna have mechanical arms
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| That’ll jack me off with a lotion dispenser with a motion sensor
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| No emotion hence I guess this sick prick dies hard
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| I got a Magic Johnson
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| It’s like a Magic Wand allows me to not let a blonde arouse me
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| If Ronda Rousey was on the couch with the condoms out
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| Holding a thousand Magnums at once to pounce me
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| I’ll laugh in response to how she dances and flaunts it around me
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| Her flat little badonkadonk is bouncing around
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| And all I see is Paulie Malign now, she’s slaughterhouse in a blouse
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| And Madonna with mud on her, God dammit I am misogynist
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| I slap Linda Ronstadt with a lobster, throw her off a balcony
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| Just so happens she’s fond of algae |
| Cause now she’s faceplants on the concrete
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| Complete lack of responsibility
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| Half you as*holes ain’t strong enough to pick up a spirit
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| Shit, you fags couldn’t shoplift at a thrift shop
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| But I let the track lift 'em up, boost the energy
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| Klepto, I’m back to rip shop up, but my thing is this now
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| Five-finger discount
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| Been rapping so long I’ve been killing this shit, it’s easy
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| Kidnapping your mom cause I’m still in this bitch, thievery
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| Ransom for JonBenet Ramsey, Chandra Levy, and Gary Condit
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| («Em») Paul was scared that if I went back to the blonde
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| I might relapse, get on some bullsh*t
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| Perhaps I’ll launch some cracker taunts at Action Bronson
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| Macklemore, Mac Miller and Asher Roth
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| And have some back and forths
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| And record a wack response to Kendrick Lamar’s «Control» verse
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| And perform «Fack» in concert
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| Yo, I put that shit on a greatest hits album
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| Now that was awesome
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| It takes some massive balls to do some shit like that
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| Sometimes I have to ponder why people are like
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| (I'll stick around)
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| And put up with my crap so long for
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| What’s the attraction, mama?
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| Is it the fact that I’m a walking, talking, actual quadruple entendre
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| Or the pointy nose that’s pointing at you, mama?
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| Who knows at this point, it’s always poking so meh
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| Still get along with this voice cause that’s the monster
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| So do-si-do with a sociopath, everyone who knows me knows that
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| What they don’t know is the fact Rihanna calls me Pinocchio, meh
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| She loves the way I lie
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| Sits on my face and waits for my nose to grow
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| Pathological liar, oh, why am I such an asshole
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| That my disguise is pants, but they on fire
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| So am I-a, wooh, Cappadonna, cut the track off (fart sound)
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| Sabotage Christmas, crap in your stocking
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| I’m wrapping up all the presents
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| In fucking camouflage so you can’t even find 'em
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| Jack Santa Claus, snap Rudolph’s antlers off
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| Wrap his schnoz in gauze bandage and blind him
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| Blowing the head gasket at Bed, Bath and Beyond
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| Put the basket back while the bath salt packets are gone, I
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| Know you really tired of me sampling Billy Squier
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| But classic rock acid rap is the genre
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| Got Slash on guitar, splashing Bizarre, Thrasher and Aerosmith
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| And I’m a spectacular archer, feed count Dracula Chocula
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| Godzilla, half dragon and Bob Dylan
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| Bandwagoners, I’m kicking the damn stragglers off and I’m strangling 'em
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| Smack Kim Basinger on a a*s… |