| We’ll come and break down your whole circumference
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| Entering your atmosphere, B-boy style thus we’re
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| The dopest MC’s on earth
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| As dopest MC’s can you please exclude these
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| Wack artificially contaminated series of MC’s
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| Cuz I feel these times aren’t even close to being close to being close
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| ]From them rhymes Lootpack drop out from the West Coast
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| Yo, I hate it when MC’s be like I’m come in this way or this way
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| LP comes at you unexpected like that movie Independence Day
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| All of a sudden we kick back in a B-boy stance and then say
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| Wild Child, rhyme constructor, Madlib beat conductor Sen-sei
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| While I intercept this mic and get in play
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| Some might say we shine like ten rays
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| You know we’re gonna hit you with the speaker smashin'
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| While I’m stashin' cushion all up in my fashion
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| So fasten your seatbelt before you melt
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| ]From the rhymes we dealt, you felt welts whiplash (Help)
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| Nigga, that’s what you’ll be yelling while your dome’s swelling
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| While my crew be like propelling, I’m telling y’all
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| We bust with tight lines, going through my rhymes like Red Vines
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| But instead minds, be off the hook like some bed crimes
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| The auditory wakes ya up and takes ya enzymes
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| I pin my rhyme to the wall, rehearse it ten times
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| I walk into the sun to get away from weak ones
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| If I got a crate of loops, nigga I’ll freak one
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| It’s like whatever, yo, nigga I’ll leak one
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| Rhyme like I’m chrome like a stray bullet leading to your dome
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| So you’re a gangsta cool, but on the mic what’s the difference?
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| Off the top can you drop rhythmatic metaphorical flows for instance?
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| I didn’t think so, you’re just like all them floppy sloppy
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| Who like to kick back and copy like you was Kinko’s
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| Sampling old school tracks, the only reason why the crowd claps
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| It covers up the fact that your rap’s wack
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| So I chill wondering when a miracle will bring you to ya
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| Senses mentally and physically, bring out your lyrical skill |