| Trippin' off the beat kinda, drippin off the meat grinder
|
| Heat niner, pimping, stripping, soft sweet minor
|
| China was a neat signer, trouble with the script
|
| Digits double dipped, bubble lipped, subtle lisp midget
|
| Borderline schizo, sort of fine tits though
|
| Pour the wine, whore to grind, quarter to nine, let’s go
|
| Ever since ten eleven, glad she made a brethren
|
| Then it’s last down, seven alligator seven, at the gates of heaven
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| Knocking, no answer, slow dancer, hopeless romancer, dopest
|
| Yes, no? |
| Villain, Metal face to Destro
|
| Guess so, still incredible in escrow
|
| Wild West style fest, y’all best to lay low
|
| Hey bro, Day Glo, set the bet, pay dough
|
| Before the cheddar get away, best to get Maaco
|
| The worst hated God who perpetrated odd favors
|
| Demonstrated in the perforated Rod Lavers
|
| «This how we do it out here in this underground real shit, nigga.»
|
| In all quad flavors, Lord save us
|
| Still back in the game like Jack LaLanne
|
| Think you know the name, don’t rack your brain
|
| On a fast track to half sane
|
| Either in a slow beat or that the speed of «Wrath of Kane»
|
| Laughter, pain
|
| «Hackthoo'ing» songs lit, in the booth, with the best host
|
| Doing bong hits, on the roof, in the west coast
|
| He’s at it again, mad at the pen
|
| Glad that we win, a tad fat, in a bad hat for men
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| Grind the cinnamon, Manhattan warmongers
|
| You can find the villain in satin, congas
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| The van screeches
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| The old man preaches about the gold sand beaches
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| The cold hand reaches for the old tan Ellesse’s
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| Jeez
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| One, Two
|
| And this is the way |