| Feel me, grown man
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| Back off the road and in my own home, watching Homeland
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| And romancing with a mean girl, Lohan
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| Trying to deprogram, Detox, lace the Reeboks
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| Set a screen pop then shoot a three off
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| Then green out with deep thoughts, watching NBC Peacock
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| Grizz, we stop not, till we EGOT
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| Quote Jack Donaghy, pro Black Donnely
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| Punk Pope Francis with a dope rap homily, yo
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| I read some Facebook posts and I open TextEdit
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| Cause I don’t blog or Twitter, yaa, I get-get it
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| And I kinda get Reddit but I don’t really get credit
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| Not like respect, like actually, I don’t really get credit
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| I don’t got a credit card, good, no debts yet
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| At times I go to pay and they say «Yo, we don’t accept debit»
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| Don’t accept cash? |
| Well, you make us have to get in debt
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| It makes me wanna talk Illuminati on my next record
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| Also rappings who go «I don’t really get credit»
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| I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’m the best at it
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| Couple get close when they grind like Next
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| You know, baby when we’re grinding, that’s «Too Close» by Next
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| Check it, Shad’s on that silly swag
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| Jeans got that T-Boz and chilly sag
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| Seven minute epic rap Iliads
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| Young black genius, some cats really mad
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| Even political when I boast now I Billy Bragg
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| So from punk rockers to gun cockers from dumb jocks to
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| Young doctors are all saying that I come proper
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| Like «I knew he had lyrics, but that was a fun concert»
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| Haters can hate, I’m unbothered, the bottom line is
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| I’m always winning
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| I said I’m always winning
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| Kind of rhymes that got the mommies grinning
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| Army print and vintage Tommy in my laundry spinning
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| Speaking of mommies, lot of people call me Pops
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| Because I’m always watching kids, trying to get it popping
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| With a couple little poppy hits and they might pop a bit
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| But look who’s popping Cris in the post season, Popovich
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| Champagne Papi, but I started from the opposite of bottom
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| Still on top of it, my dominance is Duncan-esque
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| The rest is overhyped, these punks is under prepped
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| And soft as One Direction while I’m sharp enough to puncture flesh
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| One punch should get you stumbling like a drunken mess
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| Lungs compress, stuck in a stretcher until they run some test
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| Uncontestable, born to rest, sun is blessed
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| So I’mma bring the pressure, I’m even better in sudden death
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| Forever unimpressed, I’m clever, no wonder heads
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| Pirate this like discovering treasure in the sunken chest
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| Motherfunking fresh, the sound of thunder over rumbling jet
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| Coming from the west where the sun gets set
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| Not a Brit, but still a London rep
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| Like I’m double deck busses, watch me bust this like a hundred tecs
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| IQ measure by one question, who wanna mess
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| With brother S.K. |
| Say yes, and you the dumbest yet
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| Humble vet, still running with anyone that steps
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| 'Til every tongue confesses that your boy belong among the best
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| Always winning |