| Behold the fungus among us
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| When dabbling with babbling
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| I sends the battle scene to the apocalypse
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| With this you grab my cock ya lips
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| Be getting sorta puckery
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| Getting the Brewin gassed to save that ass come stop the fuckery
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| My style’ll leave ya posing like a hitch hiker
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| Make me wanna bitch microphone slap that shady ass, you bullshit nigga
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| Your fronting said you didn’t think too hot of me
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| But once you feel the vocal side of me you’ll say, «You got it, G»
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| I finds the virgin ears I’m busting raw pops
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| Ya saving the drops, trying to analyze my DNA, the verbal blueprint
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| Even if you spend eternity you’re baffled, nigga
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| Having not the slightest clue of how I’m swingin
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| Bringing styles and flow that’s nastier than urine
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| See my shit is pure and ghetto embellished demonic funk and all that good shit
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| A bad nigga when it comes to grabbing mics
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| I love all women of the spectrum, fuck around I’m stabbing dykes
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| And as I hurt em I convert em, when it comes to honey dip skits
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| I’m leaving pussies sore as if you just delivered triplets, I flip shit |
| When niggas say the Brewin doesn’t rhyme slick
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| I yokes em in the Heimlich just to get the fucking garbage out ya throat
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| Mentally hardcore
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| There be no guard for defending against the shit I’m sending
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| Once you’re comprehending the ill funk aphrodisiac
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| Giving the hoodies woodies as I’m fucking up the head like brass knuckles
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| giving noogies
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| I be’s the hell fire word reaver
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| Even Ripley can’t believe
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| I pull a stunt as if my name was Colt Seaver
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| AKA The Fall Guy
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| I never score, why?
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| I’m hitting like Mattingly
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| Get your fucking Webster’s dictionary
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| Look under «fat» and you’ll see my profile so smile
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| You’re grinning like the Joker
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| Cause I chose to smoke a mic and let you witness
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| Get this through your thick skull: my shit is deadly
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| I kicks my verse, niggas couldn’t offer competition with a medley of their works
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| I smirks when booty niggas try and grab this
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| Survival of the fittest call me fucking Tony Atlas, at the podium
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| I pours my sodium in open flesh wounds as I mesh tunes with the vocal joint
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| To become the focal point |
| Brothas of funk soon discover I be +deeper+ than that nigga Larry Fishburne’s
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| +cover+
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| Hover on the L, sorta like a stealth in the night
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| Then I makes the party jump even when it’s full of white men
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| Check it out
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| I represent enlightenment
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| That have you squinting
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| Hinting to rewards of the lord’s charity received with clarity
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| I heave skillaful syllable is the brick I stick in music mortar
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| Making ya think and raisin my floor to architect
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| I comes to spark a tech
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| Mind barrages massages caressed in peace
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| The vocal acupuncture your stress released
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| Like a hymen crack in my rhyming slacking never that
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| Styles mysterious like under LL’s hat
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| The curious become the furious and play the jury
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| Thus I’m found guilty labeling my sound filthy with the gutter in my utter
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| A fat bitch goes, «Me me me»
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| I cut her in pieces kill her sisters daughters and nieces
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| Anything related to such a thought
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| I crush I fought hard representing wicked Juggaknot minds
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| I breaks it down to your English
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| I makes you say, «I'm gooder» |
| Verbs deeper than a hooker strictly boning seven footers |