| Caught up, burnt out and turned about
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| Lurked about streets, about studio and stage
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| True ways to get paid
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| Mikah 9:
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| A chosen few I choose to roll in crews who be my trues
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| Exposing fools who broke the rules and cast 'em out my point of view
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| They end up assed out, without a clue
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| And there’s me without a shoe
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| They’re booted out of my living crew
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| They can’t do the things I do on these streets
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| Abstract Rude:
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| Peeped the game, wrote the book
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| Seen that look before
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| Been that crook at the store
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| Had hookers galore, gigolo
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| The bigger those rocks the quicker they close up shops
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| 'til it’s sewed up
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| Nigga wonder why yo pager blow up
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| Aceyalone:
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| Now where would I be if I really wasn’t G-O-D
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| 'ing on info and it’s simple to see my symphony
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| Is packed to capacity from the floor up to the balcony
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| I’m free
|
| Must be the eagle, the hawk and the falcon in me
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| And a little bit of Malcolm in me, to make me me
|
| Abstract Rude:
|
| All I want for Christmas is a new drum beat machine
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| To say this shit and make a hit and get the green
|
| Aceyalone:
|
| Yes, man
|
| Currency and the urgency, the emergency
|
| The economic surgery, the perjury and the energy surging me
|
| Mikah 9:
|
| Computerized in this engineer’s eyes
|
| Has to be very acute to manifest these words in me for the loot
|
| Abstract Rude:
|
| Cigarettes and coffee tickle a studio’s fancy
|
| Just right for the mood of audio enhancing
|
| Aceyalone:
|
| And the herbals get me strong on the mic like Sampson
|
| I throw some land, some miss some win some
|
| And some I don’t win
|
| Mikah 9:
|
| But I’m getting in where I’m fitting in
|
| Headphones in a sound proof booth
|
| You got a problem with me living in
|
| I’m advancing
|
| Aceyalone:
|
| Who is that standing on stage with the micro
|
| Psycho-analyzing every sucka in the room
|
| Whom could it be that slicing up the energy
|
| Providing food for thought for those who need to be consumed
|
| I assume that if you walk the streets you will be doomed
|
| Marooned on my planet from the cradle to the tomb
|
| I zoom at a million miles a hour 'til I bloom
|
| And I blossom like a mushroom
|
| Since I been out the room
|
| Abstract Rude:
|
| I’m the universal platform, I’ll let you talk trash
|
| Generic or abnorm can we still get the cash
|
| You don’t know yet as long as they pay you can be a poet
|
| After the show, we’ll get the dough and it’s on me moet
|
| I’m the bright lights second hand smoke filled arenas
|
| This mic’s tight severing 'em, heard 'em through Cerwin Vegas
|
| People diving off of me into the crowd, vibing off me and the style
|
| My philosophy is a wild stage show
|
| Mikah 9:
|
| Hecklers, inside stage hater are expendable
|
| They alive as long as they know something dependable
|
| We can rendezvous and vibe if you boo then that’s offendable
|
| There may be discipline resulting in an experiment
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| To see if yo limbs are bendable
|
| If your jaw bone’s breakable
|
| And then I’m a take a full eighth of the shrooms
|
| And blaze the boom
|
| Black man gold mines, hold mine, old rhymes
|
| Got my fingers on the strings of east and west coast crimes |