| To all my West-Orange delegates
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| Elephants lit, front row yelling shit
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| You are now rocking with the gods of the metropolis
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| Illadelph HalfLife where the Brown Bombers Pitch
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| Comparable to nowhere
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| With the bounty on Essex County
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| Dont go there
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| We’re pumping haze, been a deadly game, anyway
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| Ask me, «How often do I smoke weed?» |
| (Everyday)
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| 280 would get bombed and buffed
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| And bombed again before the paint could even dry up
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| In Jersey where the air is like mud
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| You couldn’t think of a nicer place to get mugged
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| There must be something in the water in West-Orange
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| That breed such Avant-Garde kids that are gunna start shit
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| In parks where we spit arson and spark spliffs
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| Essex County — America’s armpit
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| Long before John Crawford was on the junk
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| And Division East enterprises was on the up
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| I put five on the puffs to the cottonmouth
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| Got me so dry that my voice started dropping out
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| Dont forget the bullybox
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| Who spit it back and forth
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| On the benches by the skyfield basketball courts
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| Concocting a bag of tricks so hefty
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| The question wasn’t «Can we succeed?» |
| but «When we do
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| Will we maintain true to the path we paved
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| And pantie-raid pussy DJs who got trashy breaks?»
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| I would smash forty bottles
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| So the next people to ball knew that somebody was hostile
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| Nowadays, shit I used to say is stag after hours blazed
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| Inspire the next wave
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| So when I’m backstage
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| Taking elephants to the face
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| I know that other kids are drinking at the benches underage
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| There must be something in the water in West-Orange
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| That breed such Avant-Garde kids that are gunna start shit
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| In parks where we spit arson and spark spliffs
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| Essex County — America’s armpit |