| Whoo, hahh… ohhahh, wooooh
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| Aww shit!
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| Hey dudes my interludes more fatter than most niggaz LP’s
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| So don’t sell me to stale cheese
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| I’m more nicer than Little Red Robin Hood’s grandmama
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| puffin on ganja, sippin on a, Cherry Bianca
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| My grand finale’s like an alley when it’s rowdy
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| kick more bars than the penile G And let my nine clap loudly
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| Click click, bee-yow, bang, booyaka!
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| What am I do to ya? |
| It’s somethin new to ya Like screwin ya, all over my studi-ah
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| Ride on my MP-60 and let the S-950 squeeze your titties
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| That quickly I hooked you, now fix me with your lips
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| B… otch, unloosen my belt thinkin to grab the crotch
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| But before you do move my glock before it shoot my cock
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| And see basically them trick bitches get no dap (word)
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| And see basically Redman album is no joke (word)
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| And see basically I don’t get caught up at my label (word)
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| Cause I kill when they fuck with food on my dinner table (word)
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| I drop a punchline at lunchtime
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| cause I’m a Close Encounter of the None Kind
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| with dumb rhymes
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| I battle allay’all at one time
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| So fuck all you fools out there with the large vocabulary
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| in your sentence, I don’t need that shit to pay my rent with, huh
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| And to the nosey snake-ass hoes I ask you
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| Why you be acting all fly
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| when your monkey-ass work at fast food?
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| And why is it everytime that a multiplatinum artist
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| always use the underground to make a comeback?
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| Is it fair to the hardcore niggaz that rap?
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| That don’t give a fuck about the radio
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| plus the next bitch at that?
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| And being hardcore and mad about wearing high-tech boots
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| and black skelly hats?
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| And making fake-ass frowns because your best buddy packs?
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| Think about it Sip on a chocolate thai, and let your brain fall out of focus
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| This is another episode, coming live from the Funkadelic man himself
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| Yeah
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| Ahhh
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| Huh |