| Penicillin on wax, the cure for rap
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| Crooklyn Dodger number two back on the map
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| Perhaps you thought I was gone, well surprise nigga
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| Not physically, but I’m a massive figure
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| Al Pacino status, the baddest, exotic
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| Repetition like a automatic, can’t stop it
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| High floatin', po satin' like coke snortin'
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| When I see a fetus, moms thought about abortin'
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| Important, am I? |
| Gotta ask myself
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| But then I think twice like a Gemini
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| Authentic, percentage, calculating my mind state
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| Eat foods and fit it
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| Bizarre pa, ain’t it, flow you through like draino
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| Lava, from a volcano
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| Scorchin', torchin' the microphone I lost it
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| Poppin'
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| Freddie Foxxx with the twin millies
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| Burn a temperillo
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| Aiyo Foxxx fuck these niggas
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| Slice 'em up like an ox pop
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| Yeah, okay, it’s time to bring these rap cats from Fantasy Isle
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| I bring it to these fake niggas with a quick and a smile
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| You know my style, America’s most feared entertainer
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| Yeah, from New York to Cali, I’m called an acid Rainer
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| While you frontin' like ballin', son I stays in the mix
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| Same bullets in your burner since '76
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| Act like you can’t tell, shit be live as hell
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| Bustin' so much shots
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| When my shells hit the ground it sound like «Rock the Bells»
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| Call me Bumpy Knuckles 'cuz my hands be swell
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| From knockin' niggas out from the lies they tell
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| Oh well, I bet you feel me all up in ya chest
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| I make the saucest nigga catch a body blame it on stress
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| And if he snitch, I bail him out and murder his bitch
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| And then sedate her with my four pound clap
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| Shit’s only rap but I’m livin' like that
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| So when while niggas be talkin' dogs and walkin' like cats
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| Niggas mouths were gettin' way too fat
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| But O.C. |
| and big Fred Oxxx, we bought to bring it back
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| «Let's go back»
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| «I'm tellin' it just like that»
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| We be money under ground but you can’t get none
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| 'Cuz if you step into my round, you be one dead son
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| We get love where niggas be scared to come
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| And we got a whole lot to give, but you don’t want none
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| Any nigga play high post, I’m runnin' over
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| O.C. |
| weigh tons like a fuckin' Range rover
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| (Tellin' niggas to they face that the fassad is over
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| Now it’s time for this real nigga shit, can you feel this?)
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| No question, we manifestin', what we feel
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| Bust up in your session, smack niggas up like adolescence
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| (Like a D&D, I can’t see a gang, no motherfuckin' body
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| Seein' me that’s just pure fantasy)
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| True indeed son, we ain’t the one
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| While niggas goin' out like that, we bring it on like Scarface
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| (That's means murder case, I bring highs to any base
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| Disrespect the profession)
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| Mean that real niggas on the mic, bringin' it back
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| It’s mad potent, like good crack, it’s type addicted
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| All up in ya mind, you don’t want hard times
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| We be money under ground but you can’t get none
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| 'Cuz if you step into my round, you be one dead son
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| We get love where niggas be scared to come
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| And we got a whole lot to give, but you don’t want none
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| What? |