| I got a poster of Al Pachino on my wall
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| With a gun in his hand
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| And a look in his eyes
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| Like he might know just how I feel right now
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| This, too, shall pass
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| You know I’m quick to go syllable-istic
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| Nothing majestic, just fresher than the next
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| I flex through text, so turn up my transcript
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| Danny ran the gambit
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| Lamping, lab the lab
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| Down to collab' on any track you have
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| I’ve been laughed at for my abstract attack
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| Actually, they be bullied from what I said way back
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| The psycho circles like landfill buzzards, they must be the rich birds
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| I heard a blue jay just say, «That's my cousin»
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| Zip-a-dee-doo-da, ain’t nothing happening
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| These rhymes are Randy Moss practicing route-running
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| But from the couch cushion with the beer
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| And the sun coming up in the morning
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| If what’s done in the dark get to look at the light, I’ll keep writing
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| I’m not a titan, but I’ll spit 'em tight
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| Wanna stay fighting to make a living with this gift I’ve been given
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| With all of my might, man, come get it
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| I got a poster of Al Pachino on my wall
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| With a gun in his hand
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| And a look in his eyes
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| Like he might know just how I feel right now
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| This, too, shall pass
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| People, they be looking at me like, «What an idiot»
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| He need to get a better gig, a job that got some benefits
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| But they don’t really get that I’m a limited edition
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| Attempted to spit it ever since a little kid could listen
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| To Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, Mike, and Ralph, kept his attention
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| Practicing in repetition
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| Now I’m a lethal weapon chipping away at this existence
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| And live in any minute, the minute not limited with timidity
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| No longer interested in any industry entity
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| It’ll take a shiny diamond, pretty penny just to get with me
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| Spit it independently
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| These companies are human centipedes
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| Stinking, slimy, slippery
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| Tricking me for the vivid imagery
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| My intentions are never to say they need venom or synergy
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| Danny be in the periphery
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| Jamming in anonymity
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| Running with raggedy, rugged, rabid personalities
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| Making it happen, tapping the pads
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| Rapping it back at the crib, in the cabin labbing up with Dakota
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| Said the colder the flow, the better
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| Let’s go get the cheddar
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| I got a poster of Al Pachino on my wall
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| With a gun in his hand
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| And a look in his eyes
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| Like he might know just how I feel right now
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| This, too, shall pass
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| I guess I’m stuck up 'cause I don’t bust what the youngins love
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| Just a doomcuff from bumcuff Egypt, my bruv
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| With dreams of a young buck died quick, like, duh
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| It’s a venom, it’s venus flytrap once you catch that buzz
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| Hurry, catch a buzz 'cause guilt is all the trail weighs
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| But a ton of us collapsed under the need to hellraise
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| Slow learner, low class, fought and got my bell rang
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| Acting hard, but I was more chitty chitty than bang bang
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| 'Cause bullets and BBs are just not the same thing
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| Pumped up with Daisy
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| Twenty times, the safety
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| Stays off like the thought process with a brain bleed
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| Not the sharpest bush axe in the shack, my main squeeze is the M-I-C
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| I said O-K-E-Ys, and my M-O-U-'s let’s see
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| Everything is my muse, I’m five-seven, obese
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| 478 is the zip until Alexander deceased
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| To say the least, life is a trip around the sun 'til you’re done
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| So I now shoot from the hypocritical hip we’re equipped with
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| It’s nitwits from Earth
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| Sick of what we sit with and the anger hurts
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| I got a poster of Al Pachino on my wall
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| With a gun in his hand
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| And a look in his eyes
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| Like he might know just how I feel right now
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| This, too, shall pass |