| I know where I’m from, I got it from a textbook
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| The Negro, the Spiritual Son, close to my sketchbook
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| We stepped off the ledge, held hands with our souls twice
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| The death so black, you see the mamba, my snakebites
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| This game got played, the prophets got split
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| Spilt the ashes up in space, lu-look, the sun’s face
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| It’s gonna be a good day up under the elm tree
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| The crunch got a sweet tooth snacking the kid clean
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| For those still stunned, left a crumb but my nose clean
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| My snow too pure, and that’s my heart when you speak mean
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| Bagging up sweets, uh-na-uh-na-uh
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| Serving milk for the treats, lu-look, the sun speaks
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| Lu-look
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| Lu-look!
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| Arigato
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| It’s a stick-up
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| Cartoon lunch dates, the kid’s up
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| Your Timbuktu troops shoot
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| Put your hands up, freeze!
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| They stole all our jewels
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| Grab my sword up and leave
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| So last week I shot a rapper, but the manager fleed
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| He grew strong, then he returned and demanded I leave
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| This rap game on a fidget, duck, you quacking your beak (Arigato)
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| The crusades, boots marching 360 degrees
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| The cheque’s never really bigger if they picking their feet
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| My cheek dimples overgrazing, dark twitches deplete
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| The stealth and the heat and drama that’s free
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| You get rock-a-bye, you the Balboa in me
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| Sheesh!
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| Arigato
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| Bada boom, bada bing
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| Just tryna sing
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| So let me spit it
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| My spiritual indigenous and naughtiest spittle
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| Without provisionals
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| The flow is so original
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| This shit’s a fuckin' miracle
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| You don’t like it, but the flow is too immaculate
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| I’m still running, but the pigs ain’t catching shit
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| Slug tippin' and dippin' your Caesar salad dip
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| Been talkin' with the slang of a villain
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| Until I’m coughing piss
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| Coughing piss and I’m munching up on a rapper’s dish
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| Two gold chains and some playground raps, dude
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| Six gold teeth and some sticker-pack tattoos, yeah
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| What the birds see the villains do
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| These dudes play happy until I smack 'em with the pedestal
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| Penultimate decision was the buki and the Seven Rebels
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| And dissect the intellect for what he made clever
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| The speech you believe will make you sing bada boom, bada bing
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| Smacking off his bling
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| Preaching to my mistletoe
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| Long John Silvers and some crook teeth
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| Grimy like the blackest Mandingo
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| So when she’s licking off the liquor on my lips
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| Seven shades blacker, Uncle Genie with the wish
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| Smuggling the sediments, the bar from the rich
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| Speak about the ego and you’ll end up in a ditch, snitch
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| Brownie fudge smudge, muck
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| Handsome little fucker, on the stage I spit wise
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| And that’s word to my mother
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| And my sisters and my brothers' brothers
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| So
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| Hmm
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| I don’t know what to say
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| I’m going insane
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| Up in the membrane
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| I’m going insane
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| Yeah
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| Yo
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| Yeah
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| Yo
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| Bada boom, bada bing, smacking off his bling
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| Huh, and I’m just, just tryna sing
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| Yeah
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| Yo |