| Syllable slasher, insurmountable mic gasher
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| Quick to vent with intent, you can’t crash us
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| Constant link passers, styles’ll skate past ya
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| Beats that we present will make you hate like a slave master (Hardcore)
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| Heated and hot, control the venomous plots
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| We be the cream of the crop, so keep our name out your mouth
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| We’ll entertain your brain for three minutes and change
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| Ain’t it strange, your fame is three minutes and change
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| Let me finish explainin', break it down like a layman
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| All the stuff that you sayin', Ain’t it all entertainin'
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| Uhh, Yea…
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| (Red hot) molten lava
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| Too hot for toddlers
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| Too hot for you and your crew so don’t bother
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| I’m the globetrotter, party block rocker
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| Heart and show stopper, break it off proper
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| With lengths to go, Yo
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| The Jacques Cousteau with flow, and underground continental
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| With words that blow
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| The competitions straight to the door
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| We’ll rock it, Herbie Hancock it like '84, Fo' sho'
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| This jam is red hot
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| A smooth brotha, for real we buckshots like that BlackMoon fella
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| The backroom sellers makin' rap tunes illa |
| The Killa flow spilla, the Chicago thrilla named 2na
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| We come tramplin', your city and stand in
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| We movin' in tandem, your crew couldn’t phathom
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| We reppin' the fashion, no mushin' and mashin'
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| I’m through with you has beens
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| Your crew better cash in
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| This jam is red hot, when were rockin the spot
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| If you like it or not, this jam is red hoooooot
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| The vangard of art
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| Quick to put pen to the thought
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| And nice from the minute I start, huh
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| Maneuver well, I tell girls that can’t tell
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| That say since I don’t look like Maxwell
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| They think I can’t mack well
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| We them backpack boys, at your backdoor
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| They can catch a cap like a hatch door
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| Givin' the exact score
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| Forever we fight for honor yo
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| Tight since we was lable mates with Mic Geronimoooo!
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| Walking, stompin' in my big black boots
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| It be the crew J5 and we’re all in cahoots
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| (Soon) to bring it to ya live, yea that’s what you paid for
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| With skills much sharper than a Texas Chainsaw
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| Yo, pipin' hot and your mic is not
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| We steam from the pot, you wet like rain drops |
| We fire with the brimstone
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| Heat up your girls erogenous zones with electrified sparks and poems
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| This jam is red hot, when were rockin the spot
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| If you like it or not, this jam is red hoooooot
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| This jam is red hot
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| So let the ash blow
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| We relieve static with a grammatic fiasco
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| Don’t even start me
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| We rippin' up your party
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| Put us on a marque
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| We clutch without the car keys
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| This jam is red hot
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| Mind blowa, syllable Sammy Sosa
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| Dap the King’s Cobra
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| Huh, we come up to sun up thanks to NU
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| And you can say, I’m on his dick cause you are too, Come On!
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| This jam is red hot, when were rockin the spot
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| If you like it or not, this jam is red hoooooot |