| Now, just to blow this up like I intended
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| Straight from the Kausin' Much Damage will I send it
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| I recommend hittin just fittin just fine then throw it up
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| Vocals for locals, the whole nine, I’m blowin' up
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| The birthstone kid, I got it goin' on
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| Every time I throw it on, allied strength is what I’m growin' on
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| I kick styles like maybe this one or that one
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| Whichever which I bust, it’s got to be a fat one
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| Like Walter Hudson, my rhymes is thick, son
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| So, when you pick one, man, I’m gonna lick one
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| God style, hard with no smile
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| 'Cause I profile, for the ignorant child
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| And when I bust off, homeboy with no heso' I just bust at
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| Point blank range, y’all think I ain’t livin' strange?
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| I got this soul thing caught up in a head swing
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| I’m on the mic with the Gods, and I’m, soulflexin'
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| Straight from the flock with skills
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| Pizzazz your whole cipher Subroc builds, as is
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| As I jazz it up I grease your okey-dokey then
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| Yup, I do the hokey pokey let my soul bend up
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| Grown to be sixty-five inch
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| Short to swing, this hood sport is the cinch
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| Indeed I rap, ghetto folk’ll snatch your soul in tact
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| Now, slap your head up, bob and catch stiff neck MC selekta
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| The addict to this funk thing
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| And it sticks to you dramatic like static cling, for granted
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| Laps for years, I avoid troubled traps
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| Help me out the hole, to the brother I’ll give double daps
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| Cuttin' that old haps, to the straightening comb
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| Maybe, twine the knots, I’ll have the nappy dome
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| Sent to the home, crankin' with electric bass drag
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| Kick 'em big, but won’t brag, I was hittin' into a rag
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| I don’t slack, so won’t you let it off? |
| (Let it off!)
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| Can the MC selekta set it off? |
| (Set it off!)
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| Suffer the you can’t, my style is ambiguous
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| Rockin' it 24/7, clock is broken tickless
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| Broke up yup I’m on, the uppity uppity note
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| I can rock styles that move, a party a party boat
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| With clout no doubt I gots to boom the boom
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| From Onyx my man, to Zev X my physical
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| Yes, I’m braggin like a wagon wheel I roll
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| I have my cake and eat it too, and lick the bowl
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| I’m soulflexin'
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| Yo yo, can I get up on this? |
| Get up on this?
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| Yo I’mma get on this, confusion, pure
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| I collect dust and rust colored coins
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| Trust rock a mic and must grip the loins
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| From a ton gun a big slug, as quickly
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| As I’m sickly, if sucks some of pig
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| Plug my mic in, discuss this tons of dust
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| That’s been busted for a rust-like tint,
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| Despicable, duck, more Scrooge than Rickle
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| No wins sucks, no ice cream, pickle sickle
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| Now check, check, check it out, I’s no goody good
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| I wreck you’re never luckin out so get the Woody Woodpecker
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| Check when plaid slacks was a trademark, I made marks
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| Now back taxes always stay at max of stacks so
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| I’m a bad guy and I’ll snuff with a noogie (boo!)
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| Some do slump punks but up jumps the Boogie Man
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| I got a natural coppertone, tan and plus
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| Eight hundred coats of gold in my glands
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| And one can on the wall, one can
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| If that can would, happen to fall lend out a hand, to snag it
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| Ill ain’t nothin' spilled and be drippin' or leakin'
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| See on, the lip I’m speakin' and be steady seekin', some soulflexin'
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| The God Zev X is soulflexin'
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| Yeah the MC selector was soulflexin'
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| And the birthstone kid is soulflexin'
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| And the Boogie Woogie men are soulflexin'
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| And the S.O.S. |
| are soulflexin'
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| Yeah the God Ansaar is soulflexin'
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| My man is soulflexin'
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| Haji, and Sadat X be flexin'
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| Alamo and Jamar be soulflexin'
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| My man Diego D be soulflexin'
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| The Gods from Long Beach be flexin'
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| Yeah the Gods from Now Rule be flexin'
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| Phife and Jarobi be flexin'
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| Q-Tip and Ali be flexin'
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| Posdonus and Dove be cold flexin'
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| Maceo, Maceo be flexin'
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| Superman Clark Kent be flexin'
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| Richie Rich and 3rd Bass soulflexin'
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| The cracker cracker Crackerjacks be flexin'
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| And the L.O.N.S. |
| be soulflexin'
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| And the H2O be soulflexin'
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| And be soulflexin'
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| Stanley Winslow be soulflexin'
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| And the be soulflexin'
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| And my man Geeby be soulflexin'
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| And the engineer Gamz be soulflexin'
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| And Dante is like the worst person
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| Yoooooooo, OUT |