| Hellafied heaven
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| Rank and foul live amongst the rank and file, livid
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| Be the living while legend
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| My limits are alleged
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| Sun is now risen
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| Now engines are revvin'
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| Rebels are reppin'
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| Cats don’t know the half but half of the steppin'
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| I doubt that they’re down to throw down any second
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| Them clown boys don’t make a sound
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| Boring without a weapon
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| They towel boys
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| Ask the cowboy what he reckon
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| I could have moved pounds of pedico
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| And held pounds, but that won’t give power to the people
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| While po' prowling, busy profiling my people
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| It’s so vile
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| It’s something so foul, something fecal
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| My conquest extends upon realms, never charted
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| Where young flesh with color like tar be the target
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| For centuries, before the Red Sea was ever parted
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| As an emcee, I germinate seeds for the harvest
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| For the most part, press doesn’t even matter
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| Nodding like Pez dispensers to raise pegs on the ladder
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| For brunts of months the husbands hunted and gathered
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| Before a trumped up billionaire punks was the pattern
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| Lemme at 'em
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| Yeah
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| Things in Philly don’t look good
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| I got scruples
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| Professor profess what’s best for my pupils
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| Look at my pupils
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| Big up to marsupials, carryin' fam
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| I move like Maid Marian’s man
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| Without nary advance
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| My nap sack do carry a can
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| Of whoop ass, whippin' it out, is hardly a task
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| I’m on path like Road to Damascus
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| All owning the masters
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| Back to the lab, front to the past
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| Which means back to the future you bastards
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| When I say what’s the happenin’s
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| I don’t mean up in the Hamptons
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| I am not here to share wheels with the hamsters
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| I’m looking for answers
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| I act here on behalf of the hereafter
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| Saint right near the marks
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| St. Mark’s right near to Astor
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| Flashes in the pan straight giving me agida
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| Typecast cast of characters
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| Got me more bluer than Captain America
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| I stay coming of age
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| People are like «You the second coming»
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| I’m like «Hey, I’m the first coming of me»
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| I came up uncomfortably
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| And I ain’t coming to play
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| And the predators are becoming to prey
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| But things in Philly don’t look good
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| Spent three years over your head
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| My name mumbled under your breath
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| Now I’m the boogie man under your bed
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| Terrorizing your village
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| Here to pillage and plunder your bread
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| And everybody raised on wonderbread get a percent
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| During the chorus listen up for Horus battling Set
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| First it’s cats fed up with love and rather battle instead
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| And now impersonation’s some sort of respect
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| I think that’s sort of a stretch
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| Ain’t nobody coming off of the head
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| The situation’s come to a head
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| C’mon, what the heck
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| Last thing sonic I gave any spin was sonic the hedge
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| I ain’t folding under pressure
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| Peep the sound of me pressing reset |