| Big word halitosis, multiple scoliosis
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| Doctor Kill, giving the rap dosage
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| Postage stamped, signed, sealed, delivered
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| Distributed through out the hood, muthafucka, what’s good?
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| Exciting, unorthodox, biting, ought to stop fighting
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| Fuck it, now I’m forced to box
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| You got 22 tattoos, you 2Pac
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| You tattoo much, touch like 2Pac, dude, that sucks
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| Smack saliva, out the side of ya face, I ain’t trying to be rude
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| But dude, you fruit, so I gotta make grace, choir —
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| (Jesus Price has all the time)
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| Yeah, all praises due to the rhyme, ya’ll niggas is foul
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| Fuck it, Sean’ll shoot two from the line
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| Two for the nine, I leave lead in ya jaw and ya rock
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| These niggas ain’t ready for war, let 'em know
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| I told 'em, these rookies ain’t ready for retardation
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| In it’s realest form in rap, this street car racing
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| Rebellious, rederic, heat start blazing
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| After that, I seen Caucasians, in the streets all taping shit up
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| They could be trying to piece ya faces back together
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| You keep on playing, you hear?
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| Yeah, The Loudmouf Choir, luger lifting your name
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| The word-a-matician, magician, David Blaine on your chain
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| Oops upside your head, we smack you oops upside your head
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| You wearing suits and a towel on your head
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| And eating soup with the noodles and eggs
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| Oops upside your head, we smack you oops upside your head
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| You wearing suits and a towel on your head
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| And eating soup with the noodles and eggs
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| Ok, new word, respeckanize my gangstaforcation and g-dentials
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| You scared to fire, banging your face through ya Jeep window
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| Get ya window shot up, in a residential area
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| And left, fuck a ocean and sea-ment you
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| This time it’s the principality, punk
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| You a point to prove, put the pistol back, you’se a punk
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| Push your shit all the way off, a producer para-loser
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| Yeah, pussy, that’s you, chump
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| All that yackety yackety, your teeth, where the animals be
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| You get your ass beat, baddily, gradilly, P, Alkatraz
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| And the Beast Master, take a stab at me
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| See all kind of red dots on ya face like bad acne
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| Nappy piece to be praying for ya niggas
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| While I’m getting my vulture on, preying on ya’ll bitches, choir
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| (Ruck, Rock, Ruck N Roll, get you both on this collar hydro)
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| Yeah that’s how I got my Bronx bitch, she breakdance and bomb trains
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| The fifty pop blocker, while giving me bar bread
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| Asking you car banger, and she go all way
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| She gone, go where I say, she know where ya’ll stay, suckas
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| Yeah, ya’ll niggas 'ready to die', blast the sket
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| And then you realize, ain’t no fucking 'life after death'
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| Smash your chest with a fucking medicine ball
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| You think you nice, but I’m better than ya’ll
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| Listen, Tommy Tee on the beat, Loudmouf is the Choir
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| Heltah Skeltah on they job, and you fuckas is fired
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| The fire supplier, forget your squad
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| Nigga, I’m dope like the tits on Oz, get your nod off
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| Oops upside your head, we smack you oops upside your head
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| You wearing suits and a towel on your head
|
| And eating soup with the noodles and eggs
|
| Oops upside your head, we smack you oops upside your head
|
| You wearing suits and a towel on your head
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| And eating soup with the noodles and eggs |