| Yeah
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| Serotonin saliva
|
| Cross bred with the wicked of men and God’s lighter
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| Fly high or die, D-I-Wi-Fi rules the sky so I comply
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| Never quit dick, Clark Kent shit
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| Lois Lane that I paid your arrhythmic
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| Sloppy pigment ign’ant
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| It’s just a mater of arithmetic
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| Witness the chemist the sick pit
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| I manage the pen and I’m quick wits
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| Like my dick is to your bitch lips
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| And you think I’ma give a shit? |
| You right
|
| I might just dump a thick brick in your crib, Goodnight twice
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| Cause I can give two shits, the kids nice
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| I’m ruthless and ill wit' it, Eric Wright
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| I’m apparently very dope, mean when I grip the mic
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| I’m like an overdose of dopamine, hold on for dear life
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| Excellence is implemented every time we enter
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| Any booth, we Ferngully sabretooth
|
| Let it consume you become the exorcism move dude
|
| Survive the exorcism, Now you’re wearing Moon Boots
|
| Plant the flag and Instagram it
|
| Or fabricate a portrait of accomplishment to show people that you advantaged
|
| Only the land win
|
| Coast to coast still clear and you accept that we the only one still standin'
|
| Got a six figure track to hit 'em wit'
|
| Some classical syllable spit acid, ribonucleic fashion
|
| 'Till every ligament in your body is burned to ashes
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| No need to ask «Who is he?» |
| after this you disaster
|
| Turn your jewels to molasses, laugh at you when you’re blasted
|
| Staple some fake lashes, lame and you ain’t crackin'
|
| But here’s a sample of eight straight to the crafted
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| Titans in Hades' basement with lightning hittin' the masses
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| Michael and Jeffry murder everything
|
| Bring it back to life, prepare it for reentry
|
| NASA slimeball fire for the fuse hair
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| Diagnose that’s the chosen why are you here?
|
| Ain’t it fuckin' clear right fuckin' now
|
| Why I fuck around? |
| Fucker just get down
|
| Real rap juice, real rap dudes
|
| Paper boys on that bike with the good news
|
| Come get it, Let it infest your mind like a sedative
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| Embed it, lettuce, though of divine and let it live
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| Your debted, wetted, hollow tech nines and we let 'em rip
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| Who knows what I’ll fish when I leave this recording booth
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| Products will lay him in hate, housing at minimum wage
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| Thousands watch lagers break, and drown a calamitous lake
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| Gothima cinema eight, towns in a fit of rage
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| We live in these with no escape
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| There ain’t no shame in our game we do our thing son
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| Come get some
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| These simple words just don’t move me
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| Be real
|
| Yo what you want
|
| There ain’t no shame in our game we do our thing son
|
| Come get some
|
| These simple words just don’t move me
|
| Be real
|
| Yo what you want
|
| The buck stops here |