| Dark nights been cold like night veins
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| Serve niggas chills, I’m I’ll like Mike Caine
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| Express and I stress the best, I’m insane
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| To these bitches like Miranda, I’m lyrically Bruce Wayne
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| Pain I felt it and belted it out in sorrow
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| Broke days, way too embarrassed to ask to borrow
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| A dollar for a quarter a gallon of gas tomorrow
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| Struggles by the car load had me lower than Carlos
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| Borders we sorta ignore 'em like fuck a lock yo
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| No plan drawn still stone cold, a Picasso
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| Nothing quite impossible, something similar to Pac though
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| Young poet, we know it, sow it so it’ll grow blow
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| Where the wind take me, money’ll never make me
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| No matter where I go, so money’ll never break me
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| Though I been broke like pieces of soap pasted
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| To cleanse my soul bands like grams we raising
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| Reaching for better, it’s whatever I’m Kevin Bacon
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| X men out that want none a part of my making why
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| Bane ain’t a match for this emcee
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| And Dark Knight bat wings need a M3
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| All y’all drool for Ra’s al Ghul protégé
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| I’ve been cold as Jay on «3 Kings"nigga get schooled
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| I am the, 5'3"Morgan free-flow genius
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| Underground killer like Bane whole team is
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| They couldn’t cop me now they stuck underneath me
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| I took a leap of faith and I climbed up easy
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| Rap-so-deezy and Eric Jones, I Gotham City
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| I save ya all from the bad rappers in ya city
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| And let you take a couple jewels like the cat lady
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| Dark Knights rise again Jamla we back baby
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| Yea
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| I say Dark Knights rise again Jamla we back baby
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| It’s so quick to flip and crown a next king
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| Trip like crips do the blues make us swing
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| Low as the flow where chariots rider wings?
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| I decoded the message arrested by modern bling
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| lives that never use knives to bring
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| Themselves up a notch only took a stab at a dream
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| Coliseums, used to pray to him, the Elohim
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| Witnessed the door to door and I guarded it like Hakeem
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| The Idi Amin of all these idiots mean I know
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| Toe to toe go with the best that they throw in the ring seen
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| Lot of despair, pair me with none of them things, two left
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| Feets only dance to the beats with B’s we rep
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| Honesty, my history Cherokee and it’s African
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| Deep blue cinnamon, every bit of the black in him
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| Embrace heritage, capitalize like acronyms
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| We higher seed, no need to deplete it like the Vatican
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| And Benedict ourself, deplenish all our wealth
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| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
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| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
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| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
|
| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself
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| Never blame a man for misfortune, do it yourself…
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| Ain’t rocked a 9th beat in a minute
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| I ain’t even with niggas
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| You slight breeze, I’m wife beaters in winter
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| I’m a product of Reaganomics where the law is a greater problem
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| Where the niggas is spraying something and they got 'em
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| Word to Robin, that’s Gotham
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| That was fiction but I’m talking about the district
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| Where business is booming for bird flippers and morticians
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| And I understand the plight of Bane
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| Except we using other drugs just to fight the pain
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| It’s coming apart, I’m hoping to God you niggas ain’t playing
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| Cause I’m more Patrick Bateman and y’all Bruce Wayne
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| And I do my thing really
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| Folarin spit pepper, young veteran
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| You niggas lack season like a torn ACL-a
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| Level headed, I put this with in yo lady belly
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| And I bet my digits 'bout as thick as Fat Belly Bella
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| I’m like the new fella meets (Goodfella)
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| Good guy turned heel do the crude business
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| Manute length is a list of niggas that may envy
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| But I eat danger for lunch, breakfast, and plate empty
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| And I leave the place with some choice ladies to fellate with me
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| And I pull hoes like cellos strings, nigga hear my symphony
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| Of the Opus Mr. Holland ain’t got nothing on
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| Hollerin' at these hollow heads, we both shallow but I am raw
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| Fly as fuck, who the fuck is y’all to compare me to them peoples
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| Niggas questioning they outfit like Jim Carrey on the sequel, get me |