| Yo I’m a pharaoh, my street magic been on deck
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| I’m the north Philly Imhotep, you ain’t been no threat
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| Look at the walls to my lingual set
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| And the trim on the gold coffin where my demos kept
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| It’s Kamachi, my legendary status is earned
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| With the ashes of dead faggots from the Vatican burned
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| I don’t care unless the murder of the Pope is concerned
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| I’m Violent By Design with the scope and the urn
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| You sweet wearing sequins stroking a perm
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| I’m in the desert with fatigues tryna focus the germ
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| Yeah, and all you see is blocks of fire
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| Suicide bombers screaming «What?» |
| to Allah
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| Y’all tryna play heavenly angels
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| Get your halos mangled and the throat of your savior strangled
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| Enough to baffle your ears, a little shrapnel from the chapel stairs
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| Ayo, my flow is pain
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| I feel nothing, I’m bleeding novocaine
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| This is a soldier game
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| Fuck 'em, buck 'em, blow his brain
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| I camel-clutch mics, put your fucking soul in flames
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| Take a hold of you and scold you with Jehovah’s name
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| We fucking load and aim, ayo Chief Kamach'
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| Take these rappers and strangle 'em until they breathing stops
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| We talking weed and rocks, Desert E’s and Glocks
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| The only thing that make me happier is bleeding cops
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| I only fuck around with ill rappers
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| My homie Celph got the heritage, stealth and all the ill clappers
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| You only mad cause your flame is dying
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| I ain’t hard to find
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| You can catch me on the grind with Seamus Ryan
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| Master builder
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| Rap British Bulldog, boy, ask Matilda
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| Cats with the steel, young God
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| The soul bender with uncontrollable tempers
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| Leave you dead in your Nikes like
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| You was Heaven’s Gate cult members
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| Yonder yo the, the money folder with that funky odor
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| Don’t get it twisted like I’m speaking with the tongue of Yoda
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| You stay behind the bushes like a cop that’s under quota
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| I’m saying, «Fuck the Bushes» like a foreign country soldier
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| Shay’s worthy, my family play dirty
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| We continue to diss, you discontinued like a J-30
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| (Money wants you killed)
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| But you better tell cus to rely on M16s like D12 does
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| It’s the Army of the Pharaohs
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| Make a threat, you’re hardly a scarecrow
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| We bombard you with ammo, knocking off your sombrero
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| So move back, pendejo
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| You dealing with a lot of these guys
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| That rock silk suits with Mafia ties
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| I’m blazing hot, open my mouth, flames come out
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| You’s a snitch, open your mouth, and names come out
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| So we gon' pop your top off and brains come out
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| Nigga I thought you said you knew what a gangsta 'bout?
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| Hang 'em out, these pussies is wet, leave 'em to dry
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| I do the work of the devil, I’m a hell of a guy
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| Unload the MP5 and leave your studio sprayed
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| And have blood squirting out your head like Coolio’s braids
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| Doggy, this is how we slaughter heads
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| Catch you sleeping, stab you so deep
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| The tip of the blade puncture your waterbed
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| Cause I’m the type to slice the skin on your back off
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| Come back a week later and slice the motherfucking scab off |