| I remember when, last past November when
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| Clown kid got pounded in with the Timberlands
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| They left him trembling, he was not remembering:
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| Never tuck your denim in just to floss an emblem
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| Some would debate, «Wait, the fella ate gelatin
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| Or he been listening in to what his weathermens was telling him»
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| When I could feel it in my melanin, it’s compelling
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| Us to break them off, no reassembling
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| No science-fiction to no theater near you, coming soon to
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| Fuck with you frequently like how phases of the moon would do
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| You could gather 'round like it was an eclipse
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| Just don’t look directly to the bitch, you may be blinded by the scripts
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| Pass the L, the last to tussle in them shirttails
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| All hail, King Geedorah, the third rail
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| 700 volts holds rap to a standstill
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| Fool ignore the rule, fuck up and get his man killed
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| Two bottles of Dom got his hands filled
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| And so goes the days of our lives as the hourglass sand spill
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| And built with Passion and a glass of the 'Ze
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| (And the lights went down and hey!)
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| And I knew it was the last day — Wig-Twisting Season
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| When some could get their wigs twisted back within reason
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| Mostly with these crimes of treason
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| And you’ll be lucky if there’s no squeezing even this evening
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| From how he’s feeling, thrilling choice of flow is sick
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| He’s the villain with the million dollar voice-throw trick
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| He’s like a ventriloquist, with his fist in the speaker’s back
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| Couldn’t think of no uniquer track, nope, sneak attack
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| It don’t really matter how big them is. |
| So much as a nipple
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| Cause you could have a chick with D-Triple
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| 'Cept the nipple little. |
| Just hot off the griddle
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| Like how he do monkey rhymers, like Monkey-in-the-Middle by his damn self
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| Ain’t no average MC ahead of me
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| Getting cheddar instead of the probably better pedigree
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| With nicknames, sick games as Rick James
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| Messy games, sci-fly such as Jesse James
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| Blast, I figure, ass-hawking ass titty licker
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| Last one to walk up in, fast-talking city slicker
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| Got bagged cause of the dirty chick with make-up
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| Bail out quick for the 7:30 wake-up
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| My only backup was an A-cup, as far as May
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| To when the leaves turn red and gold to Nimrod earthday
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| All else? |
| Worthless to say
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| (And the lights went down and hey!)
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| That’s when I knew it was the first day — Wig-Twisting Season
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| When some could get their wigs twisted back within reasoning
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| Mostly with these crimes of treason men
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| And y’all be lucky if there’s no squeezing even this evening
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| It’s like a mosquito, the much sweeter resent the act
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| I been bent back since my Physical went back
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| Since, Cultured more of my kin
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| And for them I keep an L rolled in this hellhole
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| Hold your head, use your head and hold, or be dead and cold
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| In the worsest way, soon as the leaves show red and gold
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| To 'round Nimrod release day
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| And all else? |
| Needless to say
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| Wait a motherfucking minute! |
| True facts presented
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| The names was probably changed just to protect who ain’t in it
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| The XP was three-quarters tinted, 4/5ths was converted
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| The way his shit was twisted? |
| Ask him if it hurted
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| Wig-Twisting Season
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| When some could get their wigs twisted back within reasoning
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| Mostly with these crimes of lying, and fronting, and cheating
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| All types of different styles of treason |