| Yo, I’d like to check this microphone before I start right quick
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| Microphone check 2,2,1,2,1,2
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| Big up all the Monsta Island massive
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| And beware before I triple dare you like the last kid
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| Who ask me what we don’t got that you got son
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| For one, flow that’s elementary my dear Wat-son
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| Secondly, ever since I was little
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| Not so much to riddle, least rhyme to the syllable
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| Keep tracks that make a Arab thief clap
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| With no hands, I chop these drums off
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| Truly yours, G Rap
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| Actual fact, relax
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| In this land of lyrical loss, black
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| I’m not the cool sleet stack
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| The one who might stop and talk to you
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| Poison to few, niggas who be bitin styles I’m like pork to Oooh… what you got to lose? | 
| Let mud fly
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| When I got blues I chew whole crews that’s bud dry
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| So I ask why the style’s from the cess
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| Shit be fuckin with my eye as I pull it to the chest
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| The super muthafuckin’villain grip the mic wit an iron hand
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| Throwin emcees to the fire from out da fryin’pan
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| It ain’t no use in tryin, man
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| Son, stop cryin
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| Frontin’like you death-defyin'
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| You need to stop lyin'
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| Speak your piece only once you’re spoken to first
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| Now lemme hear your verse while I’m chokin’you
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| With bubbly fine rhymes like a editor
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| Throw them to my collection of skulls and spines like Predator
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| Fuck around, the only niggas who could hear the same sound (who?)
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| Was Jet Jaguar and James Brown
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| (Yeah, yeah only them two niggas?)
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| And I’m glad I took the time to write their names down to big 'em up
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| (True, true)
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| I’d like to say hi It’s fly the odd Merlin
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| That’s quick to whip up a script like Rod Sterling
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| bad bitch who used to whip the Sterling
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| Who see God ?, never see God earlin'
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| My man Grimm had his little monkey like Space Ghost
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| Me myself I got flavors that out-taste most
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| With numb gums, some rhymers is lake toast
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| Back to you MF Doom, you late show host
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| S to the U to the P E R-uh
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| Who chronicle these times in a 3-D horror
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| co-star or in a realer drama
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| Who break bread with stingy kin-men, indian borrower
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| Lone gunmen who candidly flip fly floes
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| Single-handedly with one eye closed
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| In a fly pose, no shirt
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| May see me stack the quarter-mill cash pay
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| That’s in a smash way how he did it Muthafucka probably couldn’t peep it past a minute |