| Yo, yo we throw slug rhymes at niggas over your airtime
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| Knock em out position, drink and piss in the moonshine
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| We take time, rewind that, counterclockwise
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| Got it on tape, swellin your face, showin you ca-ca
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| No shut eye, Cocoa B’s, sinister B’s, nuff trees
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| Fog like London when you come in the dungeon
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| Hot shit, oven mitts what you need
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| To swing with these three MC’s like heavy pendants
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| Step to the side Dunn Dunn, you know these bullets is nameless
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| Like virgin ass cats who hate, because they gameless
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| Put down the stainless, only to grip upon the plastic
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| Lighter to carry, metal detectos can’t track it
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| If it’s, reason to cock, then it’s, reason to spit
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| You took my man’s shit, the reason you got hit
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| Now you hold that and live with it, plastic bag shit
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| When your boys come around, you can tell em? |
| did it
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| Yo watch us lace shit like new kicks, my crew’s quick
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| To pull tools and stick you for your jewels, and loot stupid
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| Punk bitch, make you run quick, run yo' shit
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| You don’t deserve it, gettin served on some herb shit
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| Like Pee Wee Herman, y’all niggas caught jugglin sperm
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| And I burn them dickriders serpents times the rounds is German
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| Luger shells, who the hell them nickel-plated duplicates
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| Fuck this, we bring the ruckus, niggas ain’t doin shit
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| «For every rhyme I write, it’s twenty-five to life»
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| «Realize sucker.»
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| «For every rhyme I write, it’s twenty-five to life»
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| «Better recognize it.»
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| «For every rhyme I write, it’s twenty-five to life»
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| «.better ask somebody!»
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| «For every rhyme I write, it’s twenty-five to life»
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| «You don’t know?». |
| «You better ask somebody!»
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| Track metal, rip through your crew like hacksaws
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| Attack jaws, and break both legs on the tour
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| The crowd, beggin for more, splash em with metaphors
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| Leave em wet like Coney Park when I display the art
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| I choke notes, batter bass, murder treble
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| Injure contenders, and turn they whole fort to rubble
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| S-Double, rebel for the new millineum
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| Rules we bendin em back, we crackin them straps, we packin em
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| Duck Down Records wrecks ya bring the Rawkus Steele and Tek shit
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| Shabaam slams, my fam’s connected, Duke respect it
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| Don’t make my dog get angry in public like he does
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| Make shit hectic start buggin then pull the plug and disconnect shit
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| I’m like a big purple and yellow, CBR eleven hundred
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| You like the Honda scooter, no gears and one color
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| When I was younger I was speed to let the heat blow
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| But now I’m rappin like Usher, I do it Nice and Slow
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| Hit these niggas with a Tyson blow, slicin foes
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| Throwin shark skins at those who come here to oppose
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| I bled Arabic with ones, told him rock with that
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| My brother went up top, and seen papi with that
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| My nigga, what, call them bastards 'fore he cuts two gats
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| Another Bed-Stuy's finest was fuckin with that
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| For the record, we just grab the mic, and we check it
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| Kinda unexpected, for the ones that’s dozin
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| Leavin you open like a gash, nigga PEEP my style
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| I rips it foul, you ain’t sayin nothin I’m fearin
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| B-K to B-X, B-X to N-J
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| Music to my ear like Tito Puente, comprende?
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| Spit verbs for my gente, don’t get it confused
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| You lose, fuckin with those that don’t care
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| Put your ear to the concrete, feel the buzz on the street
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| The elite in my fleet, takin dimes to the hole
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| You ask who got soul? |
| Sahdeeq and Cocoa’s
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| Flow blow yours, flat on the beach like sand castles
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| And that’s what it be black, it’s all about
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| Gettin deep on, this session. |
| uh-huh
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| You know how it go, Sahdeeq, Cocoa B’s, Smokin Gunz
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| Nick the Wiz, ?, that arabic, big U-N-I
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| Yeah, bitches.
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| Yeah this is Eddie Griffin right?
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| I wanna give a shout out to uh, the Beat Junkies
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| J-Rocc, Babu, Rawkus Records in the MOTHERF… in the house! |