| Yo, check it out
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| Uh, yeah, South side nigga
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| What? |
| all my live niggas
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| What? |
| all my live niggas
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| All my live niggas, yo, yo yo
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| Guard your shot
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| Whether it’s on or not
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| Guard your block
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| Beef then storm the spot
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| Alarm the cops
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| Stick you then pawn your watch
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| No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock
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| Oh God, I get charged out of nowhere
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| Battlin' me is like Afghanistan, nobody want to go there
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| Especially when I’m charged off the cannibus toke
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| Puff the dutch too much, lungs damaged with smoke
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| You can front on the lyrics but you know they sound strong
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| I walk down the blocks these bitch niggas ain’t found on
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| Diss me, get clowned on
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| That’s how it happen
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| I bomb shit, no nonsense, my style of rappin'
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| So vicious, perfect, flawless, no glitches
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| And after the show, I’m shacked up with yo mistress
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| Yo bitches! |
| I’m runnin' game heavily
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| To broads I’m Barry Bonds, I’m tryin' to hit 70
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| Memo came to me with the hot track
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| Said, «I heard you rock phat.»
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| Asked for dope lyrics, shit I got that
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| Hardcore, fly the Condor
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| Who want war?
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| Impress the crowd and make 'em scream «Encore»
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| Niggas
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| Guard your shot
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| Whether it’s on or not
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| Guard your block
|
| Beef then storm the spot
|
| Alarm the cops
|
| Stick you then pawn your watch
|
| No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock
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| Yo, y’all niggas talkin' bout the street life but really couldn’t live it
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| Watch your back punk, you might catch bullets in it
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| These cats pussy like Monistat, bomb your rap
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| Your album’s faker than Michael Jackson’s skin, I can’t honor that
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| The hungriest
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| Technique like the drunken fist
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| Lyrical cunningness, all haters can suck a dick
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| I ain’t adjust shit homes, I beg your pardon
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| Don’t address the Sargent, I bring death like The Headless Horseman
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| Raw rhymes like P, I’m 'bout that
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| Me without skills, like the ghetto without crack
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| How’s about that
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| I just snap like bra straps
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| Test me, I hunger for blood
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| Get your jaw tapped
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| Who dares to try to master
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| Walkin' fire hazard
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| Natural disaster, blast ya
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| To you nerd fucks who think you mastered the art
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| Go back to The Yellow Brick Road and get you some heart
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| Plus lyrically, or on the street, you don’t want the ruckus
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| I rain on Tin Man MC’s and leave them rusted
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| Metaphor forever raw, lyrical predator
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| Go to war like He-Man and Skeletor
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| And fuck wack, cause dope is all I settle for
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| I play the rap game until I get a better score
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| And right now my niggas lookin' like a blow out
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| Grab the mic and show out never hold out
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| No doubt
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| Guard your shot
|
| Whether it’s on or not
|
| Guard your block
|
| Beef then storm the spot
|
| Alarm the cops
|
| Stick you then pawn your watch
|
| No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock
|
| Guard your shot
|
| Whether it’s on or not
|
| Guard your block
|
| Beef then storm the spot
|
| Alarm the cops
|
| Stick you then pawn your watch
|
| No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock
|
| I’ve been in this shit since Rakim was Fiendin' for Mics
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| When gold chains was the shit, nobody’s thinkin' of ice
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| When the music bang hard, no debatin' it’s soul
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| Then the labels got sheist and took creative control
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| Now we got senior rappers
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| Lo and behold
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| Gettin' rich off lies and borrowed flows
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| Can’t record and snap
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| But I’m advanced like a cordless lamp
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| I make your crew look inferior with a chorus chant
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| So who want it?
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| I make the Earth lose orbit
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| Chicago talk shit and lose your life for it
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| Guard your shot
|
| Whether it’s on or not
|
| Guard your block
|
| Beef then storm the spot
|
| Alarm the cops
|
| Stick you then pawn your watch
|
| No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock
|
| Guard your shot
|
| Whether it’s on or not
|
| Guard your block
|
| Beef then storm the spot
|
| Alarm the cops
|
| Stick you then pawn your watch
|
| No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock |