| Let he who is without sin cast the first stone
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| After you who’s last, it’s DOOM, he’s the worst known
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| That’ll have your boom blown or even thirst bone
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| Rock it to a worst clone, just don’t curse the throne
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| Own his own microphone, bring it everywhere he go
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| So he can bring it to you live in stere-ere-o
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| Pan it, can’t understand it, ban it
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| The underhanded ranted, planned it and left him stranded
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| The best, any who profess will be remanded
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| Yes sir, request permission to be candid? |
| Granted
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| I don’t think we can handle a style so rancid
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| They flipped it like Madlib, did a old jazz standard
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| Don’t mind me, I wrote this rhyme lightly
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| Off of two or three Heines, and boy was they fine, G
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| One Black, One Spanish, One Chinese
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| It keeps the woody shiny year round like a pine tree
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| Don’t sign me I’m about to get a mil' without 'em
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| Grab him off the shelf, he’s the villain, and what about him
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| So and he’s a jerk and you don’t know him
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| Mad how he expand work but won’t show 'em
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| Poor guys, what a sight for old, sore four-eyes
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| Now hook me with two apple pies and a small fries
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| All rise, so far art as a Rupple
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| So raw break it down and make quadruple
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| It’s crucial, you could see it in his pupil
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| And this time when he get it he’ll waste it on somethin' useful
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| Like getting juiced off a deuce-deuce of cokey
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| Keep it low key, known to pull a okey-dokey
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| Silly Goose, DOOM is too jokey
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| Damn he could really use a room or a whole key
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| Egads, he got enough styles to start three fads
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| True dat, she bad, I wonder do she come with kneepads
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| What a call, what a real butterball
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| Either I get a strike or strike out, gutterball
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| Rock it like gear for the fall
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| With knives inside pockets, prepare for the brawl
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| Yeah y’all you could say its an earful
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| Beware, do not touch mic, be careful
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| And just like he said
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| I coulda told ya
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| MF, the holder of a boulder, Money Folder
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| It ain’t funny nigga
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| Money Folder
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| Like, I know what’s up
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| The invasion was on |