| Just call me K, let me talk me smack
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| Handle minds, I do it all like that
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| Let loose on a troop till he falls right back
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| The one man army kicking war time rap
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| Just Pulp Fiction, not a story track
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| Till the truth is here and they’re taught the math
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| But before all that I’m sure you’ll add it up
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| By the time Faint One’s gonna scratch the cut
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| The promoters said, «Next track, you’re up»
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| «Who, me? |
| Nah, where’s your head at?
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| I’m not playin' till I get a bowl of green M&M's
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| And Headlock and Kirk bring the Premium Blend back»
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| Another rugrat who leaped from the pen
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| Crawled to the club, now I’m gonna leave with a ten pack
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| Dead that, I’ma leave to invent tracks
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| That’ll make your head crack with no lead bat
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| Putt fire in the sky, call me Deodato
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| With a baby-face, it ain’t Leonardo, but
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| Everything I utter on a beats staccato
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| With an appetite that’ll eat your half-notes
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| Make iller-noise, never seen Chicago
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| Moon cans I’m rocking fresh off the crater
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| So your special move won’t ever do a thing
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| When I react and I’m coming with a combo breaker
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| Now say goodnight
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| Save the encore and fade the lights
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| Terminate every name on sight
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| When the day goes night I’ma make it right
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| Do it even if doesn’t make a right
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| Although still i ain’t lying dormant
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| And I ain’t living by the book
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| 'Cause I’d rather be living it like an author,
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| MIA WALLACE: So, did you think of something to say?
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| VINCENT VEGA: Actually, I did. |
| However, you seem like a really nice person—I
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| don’t want to offend you
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| WALLACE: Ooh! |
| This doesn’t sound like the usual mindless, boring,
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| getting-to-know-you chit-chat. |
| This sounds like you have something to say
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| VEGA: Well, well, I do… I do. |
| But, you have to promise not to be offended
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| Solemnly sold my soul
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| Ain’t something that you’d fix with solder
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| Live that Martian life, that’s why every year
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| I manage to get colder
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| And for every other rapper that’ll talk that smack
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| Like, «Man, his style is old»
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| I made a peace sign, turned it round for
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| Then started dancing like Travolta
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| D—D—Dancing like Travolta
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| But, but I take to the heart like Uma
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| Went on tour with the Hoods twenty shows
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| And I roll around with the same nasty Pumas
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| Still, half cyborg, half producer
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| With no heart to lose, that would be hard to do
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| So if I ain’t the number one I’m on the path to soon
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| 'Cause I’m assuming the position like Kama Sutra
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| And I ain’t slowing, how? |
| I just go all out
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| And never know the round or throw the towel
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| You’re over now whenever I roam the town
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| I’ma make 'em all scream like Rose Mcgowan
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| That Conan sound I only wrote to pound
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| So profound, from the coast I’m bound to be the dopest found
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| And to the centre too I’m unforgettable
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| To every fool up on a pedestal I’ll throw them down
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| Oh, what’s now?
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| Straight in the door, coming through, run it with the misfits
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| And all these other motherfuckers wanna hate
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| And get all mad at me because they think I stuck it in their missus?
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| Here’s a funnel you can piss in
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| And wear my shoes if you really think you’re running in my distance
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| Try and gun it like a piston
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| I wish you all the best, can a motherfucker get a witness?
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| JULES WINNFIELD: And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and
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| furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.
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| And you will know my name is the Lord…
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| WINNFIELD: Say 'what' again. |
| Say 'what' again, I dare you, I double dare you
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| motherfucker, say what one more goddamn time!
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| WINNFIELD: Oh, you ready to blow?
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| VINCENT VEGA: Yeah, I’m ready to blow
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| WINNFIELD: Well I’m a mushroom cloud layin' motherfucker, motherfucker.
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| Every time my fingers touch brain, I’m «Superfly TNT» |