| Worked the kinks out like «Look ma, no plans
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| Except to milk this cow and live by the seat of my pants»
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| So I have my own brand, Camo Jams
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| With the D.E. |
| Dead Kennedy’s symbol on my back pocket
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| The progress from what it is and what it’s about to be like
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| Will have whoever thought otherwise holding up peace signs
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| Like maybe it ain’t register at all
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| Til they see me on BET smoking dips with Marley Marl
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| Like «Where you been all along?»
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| On the front line, open mic at JJ’s every Wednesday night
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| With Prime spinning 90's instrumentals at a coke bar
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| While I flex my technique to a room full of ex-cons
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| Bar sluts and assorted rap talent
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| 2 AM Crew would come through and bring the house down
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| Til cops found out what happened when bartenders shook hands with customers
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| Started sending undercovers in
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| Two weeks later Che gets stabbed in the head
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| I got the call at South by Southwest, puking during sound check
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| Like «That's why shows get banned and fans don’t give a fuck enough to see
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| their favorite artists live and CD sales are in a rut»
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| It’s a dirty job but everyone wants to do it
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| DD laid the blueprint, said «Make creative music»
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| And then send them crews a postcard from the top of the world
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| That says «You knew the rules of the game all along»
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| Now ya’ll just watch me live the dream through your computer screen
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| While girls are drooling on their keys and open up a magazine
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| Like «That's that sketchy cat that sold us weed
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| I would’ve fucked him when I had the chance but he came off as a creep»
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| Last call’s at 10 to 3 but my money’s no good here
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| Slip a Jackson under the coaster, it’s been a good year
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| Doing what I do do, Cold Chillin' like Juice Crew
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| In the Lower East Side on a fire escape sipping a deuce deuce
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| (Like «Who the fuck are you»)
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| The reputation speaks for itself
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| A masochist with incredible public speaking skills
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| Check the mic, rock a crowd, roll an L
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| And back to the motel with a van full of young girls I don’t know that well
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| Repeat as necessary til everyone that didn’t pay attention
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| Finds themselves caught up in the effervescence
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| Of why it’s still important to press records
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| Regardless of the tricknology or what your friends said
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| And still release vinyl, new school cats
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| With an old school mindset about ourselves
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| Like sex cells, but my dick’s too small
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| So I arrange clever rhyme schemes to spit to you all
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| That’s Mr. Quotable to you, love it or leave it
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| Buy it or download it, MP3s found floating through cyberspace
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| Now who sounds dopest, (Don't front-)
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| That white bitch got me open
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| Head like a hole, face is like a nostril
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| Evil Jesus out the bottle, burn my tonsils
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| Hostile motherfucker, rough around the edges
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| Lefty rep it like a billboard every time we session
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| And I respect it like how me and the fellas make an entrance
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| At least an hour late and wing the whole setlist
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| And I respect it like how me and the fellas make an entrance
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| At least an hour late and wing the whole setlist |