| And now it’s time bring out the headliner for the evening…
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| Very Special… Please welcome to the stage…
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| (Goretex)
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| Escape from New York, but I be on some Brooklyn bullshit
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| I pull clips as fast as I dose chicks with ope tits
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| Call me Necor, set the coke surviving the sticks
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| Got my name all in your mouth like your liable to brick
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| Click me on the tube, chain swinging down to my shoes
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| Light up the room, african boom, spark it and zoom
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| Disciple of rock, the type to range rifles and cops
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| I’m spiteful, fake’s get left shaking like Michael J. Fox
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| (Ill Bill)
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| ?? |
| the age affected me through accupuncture
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| Gangster and hustler murderer and kidnap a suspect
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| Wrap her in ??, with Blood red to Crip blue
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| My shit’s to colorful, running through with a hundred goons and maniacs
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| If a bitch like to suck dick, she a brainiac
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| Bust up in they mouth piece, see how they react, take it back
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| Like a instant replay, live in the PJ’s, watching my Uncle freebase
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| Analyzing the angles on a fiend’s face
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| I learn to love my trees lace, the way the PCP taste
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| The way it make me see things, old school dice spot bills and sheep skins
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| As I write, yes I’m rocking Iceberg jeans and Tims
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| Thinking where I’m going be in 2007
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| Either a house in the Hamptons or a house in Heaven
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| I be chillin on the beach in the South of Venice
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| Or merking the President live on Channel 7
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| — repeat 2X
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| Coming through rocking
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| Wild like Rockstars who smash guitars (Inspectah Deck)
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| Non-Phixion
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| Unadulterated
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| Emcee’s
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| (Sabac Red)
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| I be Brooklyn till I die don’t even question it twice
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| My crew’s nice, late night at the corners we shooting dice
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| It’s like, summertime in New York, jeans, shorts, tims, ??
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| Tanktops to roofies, groupies acting loosely
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| Who’ll be, in a black drop, with his hat cocked, that can’t block
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| Puff on the stove, get spit in snapshots
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| I’m trying to live, feed the kids, drive some whips, handle biz
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| Own a crib, do my shit, in the streets, that’s how it is
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| (Ill Bill)
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| If I say Rockstar, I’m talking about rocking the mic
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| My shit’s hot like the rock fiend dropping a pipe
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| These cats are idiots, with raps so pussy they catch period’s
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| I’m serious, my life is like a drug experience
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| A porno movie with no plot and I’m the only guy in it Like Vivid video’s with Kobe Tai dime bitches
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| Ill Bill rap crusader, chilling in the black Navigator
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| Canarsie to Pennsylvania
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| Wild…
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| Like…
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| Rock… Rockstars
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| Who… Who smash guitars
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| (Goretex)
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| Break with me your out, bang you with shells and heaters out
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| Blast off the terrorist, blow bombs and speakers out
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| Hookers and bricks, gutter cats, bitches and pimps
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| Cripples and Gimps, ex-cons, pushers and tricks
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| Street poet, speak the essence, what’s realer than this
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| Up in the club smoked out coke, the feeling of Cris
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| You lighting the wrist, Richard Simmons fro with a pick
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| Taking my record label hostage if they stompin my shit
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| (Sabac Red)
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| I remember them cold nights and long lines for clubs
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| Now it’s strictly V.I.P., free drinks and drugs
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| Pounds and hugs, getting back rubs, be them Underground thugs
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| Stay street but got new found love, take a Continental, driver rental
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| Travel the globe, Non Phixion to the end worldwide we rock shows
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| Explode from out the projects, Glenwood to Drysneck
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| Hold your drink up, and make a toast to how the gods get |