| «One, two, yeah and you don’t stop»
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| «One, two, huh and you don’t stop»
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| «Ah check it out»
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| Style like somethin the microphone fiend would spark
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| Sort of reminiscing, of how it used to go down in the parks
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| Equipment ropped off, you can hear the vagas echo for miles and breath
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| Bass pounds the asphalt
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| Thunder vibration shake like a tremble from a earthquake and
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| O.C. |
| a classic in the making, mental make thoughts
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| My physical form words
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| Hot in my mouth like a joust, no doubt
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| Some a phenomenon, mic technician, electrician
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| Spit the mic down the middle like an el producto
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| And throughout the resin, then asapoltin this shit
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| Gift to gather a rhyme, make rap a staired son
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| The way I do this, switch up the fluid
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| So smooth you wanna persuie it
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| I’m raw like underground sewage you
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| This shit for insight? |
| Well I’m back, never was gone
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| What I right, be tighter than pin stripes
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| Born by mob boss, my flause in affect on the mic
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| Keep it tight, with out a fight is raw, it’s only right
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| I know it’s hot, we hot too
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| You ready to throw down, we ready to have a party
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| So if ya ready to have a party, make some noise!
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| Any mic I hold it in the grip of my palm
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| I wave it over the crowd
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| Dictatin shit like Genghis Khan
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| Nonchalantly deliver the flow like drug traffic schoolin
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| Bringin samatics to this rap shit
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| Bonafied, mic set you can’t see me on it
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| Master the art, so now I just flaunt it Born to live, a life and die until then
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| Imma keep on writin the slick rhymes with the pen
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| Take the cherry from a tree, like a virgin havin innocence
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| Bust my nuts, bringin rhymes to live like Genesis
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| But ritical renaissance
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| In death there’s a flautless
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| Tearin shit up when it comes to me pickin up a cordless
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| One of New York’s finest, on this trip I co-incide with B Minus
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| Bringin out the best in me, we formulatin like a recipe
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| What I emplore, will show nuff disto my presence
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| Then I’m divine like the seven
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| Keepin it tight cuz what safice is raw nigga, it’s only right
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| Microphone’s I melt down, slap crowns, push em out of bounds
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| Crush ya crowd, as I lay my third verse down
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| Because, this is what I want, to gain control of that position
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| It’s only right, that I follow thru compition
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| Be warning me, homocide rhymes or mad rounds
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| To get flass or pencil hurt, battin me down
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| Contents flex text expert, since my born date
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| 5/13/71 like a stick bin, injection
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| Inside ya blood stream, digest what I manifest
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| O.C., you best by me, others are mediocre like
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| I slam the earth like a meteor right
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| Cuz I’mma take mine, leavin you face down in the puddle
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| Blow up like a shuttle, when I give you my rebuttle
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| Frame of mind, across state lines
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| Await the taste, me like fine wines from Avidian
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| For those who wanna select cyphers to cyphers stash
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| Straight up, I don’t rhyme for niggas
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| I prove myself, stylin for years on the mic
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| On another level of being, what’s the B Minus? |
| It’s only right |