| I stalk down the block, grabbin my jock
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| Scratch cocks while I dot for my red light stop
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| Dead right Hobbes I write rhymes for a livin
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| Hid my misgivings from my brain was still mssing
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| Read and study while my boots muddy
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| So fuckin filthy an Avirex butters look bummy
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| Think out loud, cause I’m allowed, to stage dive in a crowd
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| Of cannibals about to spit across my eyebrow
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| Now God blessed me with abnormal tendencies
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| And granted clemency for illegal chemistry
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| Ain’t worth your weight in molecular structure
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| Out of work like JFK Jr.'s flight instructor
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| Went, lookin for exits, and tried to get my head fixed
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| Slept with a perforated picture of Jimi Hendrix
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| See in these days, Cage is like, 54 ways
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| To get my fuckin money, mega seedless to blaze
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| Sluts, gimmicks, ducks you finished
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| This is dedicated for those medicated minutes
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| Fuck, image, we stuck on spinach
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| In a second you’ll be checkin into fuckin smut clinics!
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| Like sluts, gimmicks, ducks you finished
|
| This is dedicated for those medicated minutes
|
| Fuck, image, we stuck on spinach
|
| In a second you’ll be checkin into fuckin smut clinics!
|
| I ran up in a wack open mic cafe on stage
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| So many biters I performed in a shark cage
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| In dark shades, during the Central Park raids
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| I walked out with a book of paper and a bag of beige
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| Friends, the camera lens (is) behind the shoelace
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| Get more upskirts than women’s tennis for your face
|
| I’m fresh out the box like newborns
|
| The chicken played with my monkey now we makin zoo porn
|
| Now MC’s the Anti-Christ like, Damien thorn
|
| Eric the Pascal (?) land so feel the scorn
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| The old man, illest show man, my moldin
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| With logic equal to fifteen Vulcans
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| And I’m soakin, face lookin blank
|
| Shoot this little kid up with horse tranq' and send him to the bank
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| With a 'give me the funds' note, clip’s missin from the gun
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| If he gets slapped then fuck it all I’ll split it with my dunns
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| (Bum bum!) I shit on crumbs, got a couple thousand sons
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| That all shoulda been wiped off some jugs or cloggin lungs
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| Everytime I dabble watch my life unravel
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| Did I miss an exit to the road less traveled?
|
| Transmit from the depths of the deepest bassment
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| Through the pavement, up into spaceships
|
| Deathstar creator, I orbit track wars
|
| My appeal spans Rhodes scholars to slackjaws
|
| Yo, a Peddler show, include a few heathens
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| From Hoth to Tatooine, you choose the season
|
| Dialect for all these crews and legions
|
| A walking contradiction like «Jews for Jesus»
|
| I spit how the earth taste and pass forms out of place
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| Galvanize my face and kill for breathin space
|
| Nobody to trace, open the trunk like the case
|
| Light the L off of your body and sweepd you in the face
|
| Yeah I seen old timers became semi-thugs
|
| I got more dizzy spells than Reginald Denny does
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| Cranium blower, Shea Stadium goer
|
| Hydro cultivator turned uranium grower
|
| Hang my nuts down so low, got vagina slippers for the floor
|
| Show you and that slut you call wifey hardcore
|
| While I burn off the lipsthat you evolved from
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| I’m down to shoot Pop Funks ‘cause I can’t tell what caused 'em
|
| In a second you’ll be checkin into fuckin smut clinics!
|
| In a second you’ll be checkin into fuckin smut clinics! |