| This is a rap session
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| And I’m the man at the podium speakin
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| Keepin you dancin and freakin
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| I came alive from the world of streets, baddest beats
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| And bashed up a lotta MC’s to find my seat
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| So cover your chest, protect your head
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| If a rhyme catches your mind sleep, you fall dead
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| I kick it wicked like a wizard, rhymin every letter
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| To beat me, you got to have a army or better
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| Bum-rushin other rappers like Rhyme-O-Cop
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| This is a contact sport, it’s called hip-hop
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| You suckers can’t hang when I’m rhymin fast
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| Cause your mic doesn’t have enough power to last
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| But when I slow it down to a moderate speed
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| You catch a migraine headache and a nose bleed
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| Whenever I break wild, you call Jake
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| You try to slow me down, but your first mistake
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| Was to ever approach me with your primitive skills
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| Not a backyard party rapper tryin to get ill
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| I’m a pro, professional rhymes leave my lips
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| My rhymes coinicde with your dancin hips
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| Kut Terror place his scratch wild, and hold the beat steady
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| Cause I’m ready
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| When I hit the stage, pandemonium rises
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| Cause I delight the crowd with different surprises
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| Beatbreaks play, and the king has arisen
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| Chump rappers in the back start ploppin and fizzin
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| I always keep my eyes on a worthy opponent
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| Cause it’ll really be a trick to see em lose, won’t it?
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| I keep myself ready and prepared for all
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| I handle whatever call, too strong to fall
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| When you see Freddie Foxxx, you know you’ll be entertained
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| When the show’s all over and the sound remains
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| In your brain and you walk away sayin my rhyme
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| Feelin good like a man that don’t eat swine
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| Fall asleep at night, and you start to dream
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| If you was a paid rapper on the hip-hop scene
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| You’d be heavy on the neck, and your pockets are fat
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| But bein a rap star’s a bit more than that
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| You have to have a listenin ear for new ideas
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| And speak your words fluent, so everything’s clear
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| The mumblin jumbo’s a comical gimmick
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| That the devils make money off and suckers can mimick
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| When you run out of rhymes, gonna stand there sweaty
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| Cause you wasn’t ready
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| Like Freddie the Foxxx
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| I’m ready
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| Street rappers hear a style that they like a lot
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| When they make that first record, their rhymes are hot
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| Not hot like you hear it on the radio all the time
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| But hot like stolen rhymes
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| Whatever’s whispered in darkness, has to come to light
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| So imagine what would happen if I gave you the mic
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| One night, and you recite somethin you didn’t write
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| If it belonged to Freddie Foxxx, you might have to fight
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| I throw jabs and rights, left hooks and hay-makers
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| Only luck can duck the bone-breaker
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| You’re caught in a vice grip, tight and squeezin
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| Whinin and cryin, beggin and pleadin
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| I’m lyrical and mystical, I want you to know
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| Cause when you gear up to come to a show
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| Don’t wonder why thunder hit my stage
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| It’s Freddie Foxxx on a rappin rage
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| I make rappers real nervous, give em the jitters
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| Give em 'e' for effin and I beat up the quitter
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| Hold my hand around his neck and I grab him by the hair
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| Then Karate-kick him like Mataka Bear
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| Rappers boast and brag about their lyrical skills
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| But they all shut the fuck up when I break ill
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| Cause I take all races and house both sexes
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| They got a reason to sweat the three X’s
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| I’m ready |