| With or without the mic, when my mind gets phonetic
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| The mouth gets kinetically energetic, its simple as your alphabetics
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| My words you mark and never mock, long as my name has been Jean-Jacques
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| I keep you open like your pupils in the dark
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| Dogs bark, at the gate, to negate what I create
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| Still I write rhymes, regardless of the stop signs
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| In tough times or nice times, for shade or for sunshine
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| Throughout time, all times have been the right time, to recite mine to mankind
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| Who wants mine, come get mine, you best combine minds
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| Before you cross that fine line and say who is so called inclined
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| Press rewind, you’ll find if you’re blind, you can’t see
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| How this defines and redefines M-U-S-I-C
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| Who I be? |
| H-I-P H-O-P
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| You know we as them strangers that some wish they could be or not to be
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| Impossibly, as it transcends from the pen to the key
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| To the mind, You will find an emcee, good enough to envy
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| As long as I’m alive, it’ll send me to that next shit
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| That some just can’t get wit' or F with
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| My alma mater told you that «it don’t quit» kid
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| It don’y start until it all seems to be so easy
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| Chorus: Easy, Emcee is my ambition, The incredible, lyrical and
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| Original emcee is my ambition
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| Who in their right minds thinks they can put a stop to hip hop
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| If it don’t stop till I stop and I don’t stop till it stop
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| Fake emcees that soak props like rag mops must get dropped
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| Risin' to the top of the bottom, that’s how I got 'em
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| If your heart’s glass ceiling is my mind’s glass floor
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| Whose style do you suppose reaches higher plateaus
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| While you kick those sellout flows in hopes to sell out shows
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| But get your spots taken easy as the wind blows
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| J remains repin all the heads whole steppin'
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| Whose style shall be the illest with or without the weapon
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| With or without a doubt I maintain with just the facts
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| Improving skills with or without the record contracts
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| And yet still
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| If that be’s the case my presence was a gift in its own right
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| So I remain strong
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| Long as
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| Hands cap on
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| Snare drums tap on
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| J’s word stays bond
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| And cornballs who rap get snapped on
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| Live lyrics will be just that
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| Just phat, just right for all those who feel my flavor’s tight
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| I’m dedicated to the flow
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| The only way the true lyricist could ever make it seem so easy
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| As I reserve the right to renovate the Raw Shack with lyrical scaffolds
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| Heads are battled as tracks are traveled
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| You’re unraveled or should I say unrapped
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| In this world where mics get checked and all cornballs get slapped
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| Alright rhymes get rewritten, no bullshittin'
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| Perfected, J-L run point and stays on it
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| Mastered styles look back and laugh at first drafts
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| Freestyles make toes wanna paydownponit
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| Do anything but lay down on it
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| Anstesiatics, get trapped like rats in attics to craftmatics
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| But then transform like skilled wax to insomniacs with my name in your almanacs
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| In fact, I let my glory be that never-ending story
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| Like those that still inspire since seven albums before me
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| Cause yo, from this old school comes a new degree
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| Yet to be mastered till longevity seems to be so easy |