| Aight…
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| I’m the sickest with this microphone, nigga better learn it
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| All them bitch industry niggas you know I ain’t concerned with
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| See I move thousands hand to hand, even got an increasin # of fans
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| In foreign lands, Amsterdam, Australia to Japan
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| All before my sign hit the line that was dotted
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| The man holdin the golden apple, y’all grapple for the one that’s rotted
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| To the core I’ve been hard, since 1580
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| Mack attack nigga I’ve been scarred, knowin what the fuck I gotta do
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| Fuckin rockin a spot or two I wanna leave an impression on minds
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| Like reading «Behold a Pale Horse» for the first time
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| Expose wack niggas like secret societies when Murs rhyme
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| Explore cyphers after I visit, for close encounters with the serf kind
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| Your nigga thought he was nice, until he heard mine
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| And the doper you think you gettin the more you ain’t understood the first line
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| I said learn of my affliction, and how my words wrap around
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| More niggas necks than the pictures of the crucifixions
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| Rippin mics when on
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| Name hold more weight than a 24 inch python
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| So what’chu gonna do, when Murs-mania run wild on you?
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| Bringin that crack to your back like the whip in Castlevania 2
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| And I’m through, bitch
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| When I grab a microphone, all I want is feedback
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| Energy from the crowd shit a nigga need that
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| Y’all wanted a change in rap, well fool we be that
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| And all you bitch niggas best to ease back
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| Now when I grab a microphone all I want is feedback
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| Energy from the crowd shit a nigga need that
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| Y’all wanted a change in rap, well fool we be that
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| And all you bitch niggas best to ease back
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| Now I write rhymes as dope as Jennifer Lopez
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| Words, beautify blank paper
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| Like, top to bottom pieces on skyscrapers
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| Ain’t no stoppin us
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| Rollin thick like smog through your metropolis
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| Makin it hard to breathe
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| When you enter the 20,000 leagues, so stay at your level and place
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| Cause amateurs fuckin with the treble and bass
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| Will get left dead before they make the third pace
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| See I turn around shootin off at the mouth, like New Year’s Eve
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| Sayin that shit you just, wouldn’t believe
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| Retrieved from the far corners of my mental space
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| Leave you shocked like John Travolta once you open up this mental case
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| So we happy, as long as fools stop tryin
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| To come up from the back and attack me, like my name was Marcellous
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| And those overzealous we got our blowtorch and pliers
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| So you for damn sure gonna tell us what we want to hear
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| Sorta like my album but «Life is Too $hort» so I’m tryin to make one a year
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| To make y’all niggas watch what you do like the Wonder Years
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| Watch them niggas you think is down
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| They only down cause they carryin, a ton of fear
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| It’s been a while since I’ve relieved myself of that burden
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| So I’m makin sure I’m goin all out, until they call it curtains
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| While you busy in the man’s face shuckin and smirkin
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| I’ll be lurkin in the cut, happy with bein the broke nigga that I am
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| It’s all about the Washingtons, WHAT?! |