| There he was, quite buzzed, height: five foot twelve
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| In a sweater from the Gap and a Brooks Brothers belt
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| I approach, «There he is! |
| How do you do?»
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| He’s taken aback, «Oh, Spose, how are you?
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| It’s been a minute,» I reply «Yes, it has»
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| He don’t know that I know he’s been talking trash on every track
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| Never wrote a diss back, I pretend we’re friends
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| 'Bout to lure him to the basement and exact revenge
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| So I say, «Hey, look, if you still blazed
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| Got these trees in the cellar way beyond purple haze»
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| He’s like, «No fucking way,» his words all slurred
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| «Spose, you’re the man! |
| I’ve been looking for some herb»
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| We get deep into the dark, I chain him to a pole
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| Build a brick wall quick as he screams out, «NO!»
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| Spose Edgar Allen Poes MCs slow
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| Decomposed, bones when they found him where I bound him |