| Yo, I’m hungry, hungry?
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| Chef boysandardee
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| If you put socrates in Sauconys
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| Added the father, son, and spirit
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| And had him living off his rap despite the fact that no one even hear it
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| You may have fashioned
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| Wait
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| Add a little juju
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| From Juju, Psycho les, and Fashion
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| Bake until you’re flabbergasted
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| One spoon of Sun Tzu, kung fu, and grapplin'
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| Jackie Chan, Charlie Chaplin, Tracy Chapman
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| Cool on a pedestal till fire’s finished cracklin'
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| Then put on some goggles, peep the chemical reaction
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| Season with the sasón of an assassin
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| Add tumeric, and oregano
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| Slice it with a saber, serve a slice to captain save-a-hoe
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| When his convulsions is done, he’ll start talking in tongues but don’t let him
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| take any Tums
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| Or Rolaids
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| After he writhes the whole day
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| He’ll live a life that’s full where he won’t die of old age
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| The transformation from the homemade
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| Whole grain
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| Will heal your whole brain
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| So have a whole plate, free your membrane from the mundane
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| This chow more savory than a steak
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| It even come in powder, you can take it in a shake
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| Or bake it in a cake
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| Don’t think of taking it in vein
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| Or taking it in vain
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| Afterwards you’ll never be the same
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| You’ll never be restrained
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| You’ll never save
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| Any given morning you might wake up on the 7 train
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| Bypass the apprenticeships and master 7 trades
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| And swear off medicine to meditate
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| And stare at people menacing should they have sentiments for setting straight
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| But spill it and your shirt’s forever stained
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| Your shirt’s forever changed
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| Your shirt will turn a different shade and fit a different way
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| You’ll look at that shirt differently
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| You’ll start to wear it every day
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| Maybe even in the shower
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| That’s the power of devouring
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| The flour and the sugar that is sweeter than the virginal deflowering
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| Filling like top billing
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| Hearty like a house party
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| You may have to cop the party pack
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| Like on Halloween you copped the smarties packs
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| Smarty pants
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| Give it to the kids, they’ll grow big and strong
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| Tell em they could have it for dessert if they finish they chicken parm
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| That’s why your oven timer sound like ticking bomb
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| And the roaches in your kitchen gone
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| And your vision’s strong
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| And your hearing’s clear
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| And your sense of smell can smell every cell
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| That’s the element of Melle Mel
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| That make your belly yell
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| That’s that Manu Chao
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| That make your heart sing when your stomach growl
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| Smack it up, flip it, rub it down
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| Marinate it over night it gets you right
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| Bet your life |