| This goes out
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| to all the big head niggaz
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| And all them big head bitches
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| You know my steez-o
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| Yo, yo, yo, yo Deadly melodic, robotic steez-o blur your optic
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| So you can’t see the topic, condition combo
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| Blaze bring the heat to your Mourning like Alonzo
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| Head honcho like Eastwood, gun in my pancho
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| Another bad desperado, trapped inbetween
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| the hills and the El Dorados, but you can’t do that
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| Welcome to the Wheel of Fortune where Pat don’t Sajak
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| Bring it to these cats often, the biggest payback
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| is when I condemn men, to purgatory
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| Stick a pen, do em in, eight million stories
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| in the naked Mr. Method, Blade Runner
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| Blood stain on my track record, top gunner
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| Chorus: Method Man
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| You know it’s sick now, just a little bit, aw shit
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| Can’t quit now, hard as a brick, what’s this
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| Make em get down, head where I fit, more grip
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| Hold this shit down, she don’t know you better school her
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| (Step in the Arena sample scratched)
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| Step by Step, inch by inch, piece by piece, bit by bit
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| Step by Step, inch by inch, piece by piece, bit by bit
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| Check my Extinction Agenda, mind bender
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| No retreat no surrender, head trauma
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| Death before dishonor, sword and golden armor
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| Undetected stealth bomber, blow the session
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| With Immaculate Conception, hit yo’section
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| with my Def Squad connection, the Green-Eyed Bandit
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| E Double up dammit, Iron Lung
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| flow taste like a knuckle sandwich, now you know
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| It’s time that I take advantage, take command yo Cops caught me red-handed
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| Blood On the Dance Floor
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| or was it Michael Jackson
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| Fuck it, time for some action
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| Check my Re-Runs an see What’s Happening
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| Before she get her back blown
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| Jealous men don’t understand and get clapped on, now I’m reloadin
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| Automate and keep it goin, right and exact
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| Runnin track like I’m Jesse Owens, catch em wit my rap slogan
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| Jack Frost, leave em frozen
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| Bust flows and never lay text/latex without my Trojan
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| Hand writtin ass whippin, I keep spittin
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| At any head-on collision, throw dart wit precision
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| And split decision, tell your old folk
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| and your children what I’m dealin
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| Good times, and hood rhymes from the villain
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| Till I see you at the ooh-building motherfuckers
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| This one, is dedicated to my big head niggaz
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| And all them big head bitches
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| All them big head bitches |