| The sun sets over cityscape silhouettes
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| Bright lights flicker cigarette smoke pirouettes
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| It’s the addictive kiss of death in effect
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| I’m a little stressed spittin' liquor breath introspect
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| Hot like triple X, getting lost in the mixing decks
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| Sweat glistens like glitter balls reflect
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| Recollect on the dreamscape
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| Escape the freebase infested Police state
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| Teenage protesters riot in the heat wave
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| Fire in the streets place bets on the sweepstake
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| Check how the greed shapes their mind sets
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| The beast clockin' like Timex flexing their biceps
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| There’s nothing out here for us
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| Negative forces force us to live lawless and spit rawness
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| I’m like a china shop Taurus
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| I talk of torment and pen chorus after chorus
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| BNP berserkers bent on murders
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| Teens tagging for a sense of purpose
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| Streets is tense and nervous
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| So bait is bound to tempt the serpent’s
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| Appetite, parasite paradise
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| Po-lice patronise, lappin' up a pack of lies
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| Macho guys turn hermaphrodite by candlelight
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| Still they wanna scandalise mine cos' I spit rhyme
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| I’m tryin' to scrape the paper and escape quick time
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| Get yours, utilise your get out clause
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| Outlaws on course for the great outdoors
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| I’m way out like Cheech Wizard
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| Keeping warm in the winter blizzard
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| Banging my head like Lynard Skynard
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| I’m having nightmares I’m naked in my ground floor flat
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| Gripping a baseball bat
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| With the back door open to night-time predators
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| Crack-heads highlight heaven gone wrong
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| Watching back street revellers
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| Revelation of the Devil’s messed up messengers
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| Sin is effortless, yet affecting us
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| In fact infecting us with disease
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| Beast inspecting expecting us to mess up, muck up
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| Leave you bruck up, you’ll get beaten the fuck up
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| And cuffed some even got snuffed
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| Others live on to puff another bag and brag
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| How they’re mad tough, man I’ve had enough
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| There’s nothing out here for none of us
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| There’s nothing out here for us
|
| Negative forces force us to live lawless and spit rawness
|
| I’m like a china shop Taurus
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| I talk of torment and pen chorus after chorus
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| Post-modernist, pre-apocalypse
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| Living in this rotten metropolis
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| Existing with broken hopes hearts and promises
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| Park bench politics, soap-box soap bar
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| Smokers acknowledge this novelist
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| The broke pocket economist on a mission
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| Fists clenched for the opposition
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| Sitting tight like Taliban in Tora Bora
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| The last stand now we’re living land of the lost
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| And the age of Sodom and Gomorra
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| Divide and conquer your block by the border
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| Locked by the law and order
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| The war reporter walks streets
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| As the cycle of suicidal thoughts repeats
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| In the minds of the poor and meek
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| A meat market of morbid freaks
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| Freebase heads speak to inform the beats
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| The bleak picture, the cycle of war and peace is crazy vulgar
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| Sick as the kids that killed Damilola Taylor and Jamie Bulger
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| My heart broken open and beating slower
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| The cold blooded grow even colder
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| In a globe so rotten like teeth in Cola
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| No hope of mending, a culture of violent endings pending
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| Our pens become government scapegoats
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| But no guns bust at my stage shows
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| (So yo it’s like…)
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| There’s nothing out here for us
|
| Negative forces force us to live lawless and spit rawness
|
| I’m like a china shop Taurus
|
| I talk of torment and pen chorus after chorus
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| After chorus
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| After chorus |