| Let’s start it off like uno, dos, I leave no trace
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| On some Chris Walken in the studio, explore the space
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| Like the keys is my pillow, my blanket’s the bass
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| Horn’s the comforter, drums and percussion the frame
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| Guitar’s the sheets where I lay, my words match
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| That’s how I interior decorate, got IKEA in my crate
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| Made my bed, I sleep in it, but the rest of the house
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| Is unfinished, paint peeling is my blemish, I’m living I’m certain
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| When I’m working wish life had a cliffnotes version
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| Got jobs one through twenty, guess what, they all urgent
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| My own everyday for a few years determined
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| My band play an empty show, and ain’t nothing working
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| Had to freestyle outside the club just to get a crowd
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| Lost my voice mid-set, still got homework at the house
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| Recording session later that night, in class I pass out
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| And quitting ran through my head, but then hip-hop said
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| «Don't go, don’t go»
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| Y’all ready for it?
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| Yeah
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| I bet you’ll have fun
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| I got down into it
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| There is it, there it is
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| Damn right
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| This game enforce all, sometimes you can hit the clutch and still stall
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| Some would crawl hands-and-knees, to travel to Belize, puff exotic trees
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| Take a million pictures, cheese
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| Sign autographs after rap, then after that a million daps
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| Money stacks, honeys wanting sex, kids coming back
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| Somehow it cracks
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| I guess they call that point in time a crossroads
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| I follow the same path my heart goes
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| Leading the leaders to lead elitists, over the ledge
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| Since a fetus, I’ve been sick with ideas in my head
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| Definition of The Walking Dead
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| Messing with those Quakers, getting my bread
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| I chose bitten instead, I rose, living ahead
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| But I’m still running outta time, funny ain’t it?
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| Then my life I painted, ugly of distorted portions
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| But she beautiful to me
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| Imperfection’s perfect, something I can work with
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| Champ’s on that grind, killing more tread than your city’s curb did |