| Tonight we got the mic on cruise
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| With more luck than horseshoes
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| While we fuse together like Bruticus
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| We move with ten ton thrusters
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| The cosmopolitan cosmonaut up in your knot again like aneurysms
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| Expand with wisdom
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| Musical mannerisms are parallel to cannibalism
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| And animal instinct that’s in sync
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| Distinct, leaving suckas extinct when we combine
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| The gravity nullifying physics of mind
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| Inebriating, leave you gaping open
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| Nothing’s safe in Oakland
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| It’s potent and murder is the slogan but
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| We showing the erosion of the stereotypical
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| Itching to pull the trigger on niggas
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| This is all original
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| And brand new, fidgeting with tracks that are rigid and
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| Pigeonholing rappers while collecting dividends at the door
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| Ya' know
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| And that’s how it go
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| (Who? Who? Who? Who?)
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| Who the entertainers stompin' through like cross-trainers?
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| Can’t be no plainer
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| (YOU!)
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| The remainders couldn’t never be that one
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| Pack 'em in by millions, attendance is platinum
|
| (Who? Who? Who? Who?)
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| Who the innovators who stimulate like vibrators
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| With rhymes so major
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| (YOU!)
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| Ya' need us to rock a show, hit the pager
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| Niggas catch vapors when our lyrics hit the paper
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| Once again in your dimension, tension personified
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| Del and Hieroglyphics pollenize
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| We don’t apologize for getting places packed back-to-back
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| Our rank cranks just about any function
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| While your memory file is blank
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| No hankey-pankey jankey stuff going
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| Down over here, no forms of rats or rodents
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| My styles fluctuate like the Dow Jones average
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| While they stay savage
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| My cassette change shape and transform like ravage or rumble
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| Make the Earth crumble and separate
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| Fallin' to the underground
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| Get into your head like a metal plate
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| While you sit and wait for these niggas on TV, they hella fake
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| Hieroglyphics, they can never escape us
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| The eagle eye, Mach 1 breed, mic crusaders
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| Yes indeed, intuition is the tool in which I use
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| When enriching you with original stylistics
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| And the Hieroglyphic ritual is too habitually blow it up
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| With ballistic attacks
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| Let me just deal with the facts
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| Niggas keep it real in they raps but you’re not realistic
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| Perfection and our poetical competitive edge
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| Is just a reflection of how we feel shit
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| This history’s impressionist, microphone specialist
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| Catchin' bids for putting MCs hearts in my fridge
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| The grand inquisitor, exquisite to the osteo
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| My prodigal product a diabolical melodics
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| Aquatic is nautical
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| Motion, Hiero, kenetic flotation, so fuck ya phony radio rotation
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| My colossal might on the mic is optimum
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| Hip-hop from the Sequoia Heights populous
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| Gamma rays like Bruce Banner
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| Phase your scanner
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| With mind over matter, I slap the curls out you girl scouts… ya know
|
| (Who? Who? Who? Who?)
|
| Who the entertainers stompin' through like cross-trainers?
|
| Can’t be no plainer
|
| (YOU!)
|
| The remainders couldn’t never be that one
|
| Pack 'em in by millions, attendance is platinum
|
| (Who? Who? Who? Who?)
|
| Who the innovators who stimulate like vibrators
|
| With rhymes so major
|
| (YOU!)
|
| Ya' need us to rock a show, hit the pager
|
| Niggas catch vapors when our lyrics hit the paper
|
| (Who? Who? Who? Who?)
|
| Are these originators rippin' cuts like sabers
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| In the hands of Darth Vader
|
| (YOU!)
|
| The remainders couldn’t never be that one
|
| Pack em in by millions, attendance is platinum
|
| (Who? Who? Who? Who?)
|
| Who the innovators who stimulate like vibrators
|
| With rhymes so major
|
| (YOU!)
|
| Ya' need us to rock a show, hit the pager
|
| Niggas catch vapors when our lyrics hit the paper
|
| Yeah, Ahh! |