| Acid-wash Guess with the leather patches
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| Sportin’the white Diadoras with the hoodie that matches
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| I’m wearing two Swatches and a small Gucci pouch
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| I could have worn the Lugi but I left it in the house
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| Now, my niggas Duce and Wayne got gold plates with their names
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| With the skyline on it with the box link chain
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| I’m wearing my frames
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| They match my gear with their tint
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| And you know Lagerfields is the scent
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| Now, my nigga Rafael just got his jeep out the shop
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| Mint green sidekick, custom-made rag top
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| Strictly Business is the album that we play
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| You’re A Customer; |
| the pick of the day
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| Now there’s a nigga on the block, never seen him before
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| Selling incence and oil, my man thinks that he’s the law
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| But why on earth would this be on their agenda?
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| As he slowly approaches the window.
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| Uh, uh, I’ve seen you before, I’ve been you and more
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| I was the one bearing the pitcher of water
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| I rent the large upper room
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| Furnished with tidings of your doom
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| Or pleasure, whichever feathers decree.
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| Yo Ralph is he talking to me?
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| No I’m talking to the sea son’s resurrected
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| I’m the solstice of the day
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| I bring news from the blues of the Caspian
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| My man laughs, he’s one them crazy motherfuckers
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| Turn the music back up — 'cause I’m the E-Double'
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| Wait, but but but but I know the volume of the sea
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| And sound waves as I will
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| Will you allow me to be at your service?
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| My man Ralph is nervous. |
| He believes
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| That this strange tounge deceives
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| And maybe he’s been informed that
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| He’s pushing gats hidden in the back, beneath the floor mats
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| Come on Jack, we don’t have time
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| For your bullshit or playin
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| A’salaam a something’or another
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| Wait isn’t Juanita your mother?
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| I told you I know you, now grant me a moment
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| At the gates of Atlantis we stand
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| Ours is the blood that flowed from the palms of his hands
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| on the plow till earth
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| till I’m now
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| Moon cycles revisited, womb fruit of the sun
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| Full moon of occasions wave the wolves where they run
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| And they run towards the light casting love on the winds
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| As is the science of the aroma of sleeping women
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| Lost in his eyes they soon reflect my friend’s are grinning
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| But I’m a pupil of his sight
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| The wheels are spinning
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| Yo I’ll see ya’ll later on tonight
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| In the beginning her tears where the long awaited rains
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| Of a parched Somali village
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| Red dusted children danced shadows
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| In the newfound mound of mascara that eclipsed her face
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| Reflected in the smogged glass of carlos east street bodega
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| Learning to love, she had forgotten to cry
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| Seldom hearing the distant thunder in her lovers ambivalent sighs
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| He was not honest
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| She was not sure
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| A great grandmother
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| Had sacrificed the family’s clarity for God in the late 1800's
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| Nonetheless she had allowed him to mispronounce her name
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| Which had eventually led to her misinterpreating her own dreams
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| And later doubting them
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| But
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| The night was young
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| She the firstborn daughter of water faced darkness and smiled
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| Took mystery as her lover
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| And raised light as her child
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| Man that shit was wild you should have seen how they ran
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| She woke up in an alley with a gun in her hand
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| Tupac in lotus form
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| Ennis' blood on his hands
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| She woke up on a vessel
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| The land behind her
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| The sun within her
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| Water beneath her
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| Mushed corn for dinner
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| Or was it breakfast
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| Her stomach turned as if a compass
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| She prayed towards east and lay there breathless
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| They threw her overboard for dead
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| She swam silently and fled
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| Into the blue sea
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| La soh fa mi, re do, si The seventh octave
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| I don’t mean to confuse you
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| Many of us have been taught to sing
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| And so we practice scales
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| Many of us were born singing
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| And thus were born with scales
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| Mermaids, cooks, and fieldhands
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| Sang a nightsong by the forest
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| And the ocean was the chorus
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| In Atlantis where they sang
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| Those thrown overboard had overheard
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| The mystery of the undertow
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| And understood that down below
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| There would be no more chains
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| They surrendered breath and name
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| And survived countless as rain
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| I’m the weather man
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| The clouds say storm is coming
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| A white buffalo was born
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| Already running
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| And if you listen very close
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| You’ll hear a humming
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| Beneath the surface of our purpose lies
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| Rumors of ancient man
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| Dressed in cloud face minstrels in the sky
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| The moon’s my mammy
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| The storm holds my eye
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| Dressed in westerlies
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| Robed by robes ol’man river knows my name
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| And the reason you were born
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| Is the reason
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| That I came
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| Then she looks me in the face
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| And her eyes get weak
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| Pulse rate descends, hearts rate increase
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| Emcees look me in the face and their eyes get weak
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| Pulse rates descends hearts rate increase
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| It’s like beam me up, Scottie, I control your body
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| I’m as deadly as AIDS when it’s time to rock a party
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| We all rocked fades, fresh faded in ladidadi — and when we rock the mic
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| Ignore the feminine side — we rock the mic
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| I presented my feminine side with flowers
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| She cut the stems and placed them gently down my throat
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| And these two lips might soon eclipse your brightest hopes |