| (I feel it coming back though
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| I mean it’s back, really though, you know)
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| The thrill is gone, I think it’s coming back
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| 40 below, bubble coats and a lot of struggle rap
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| (New York, New York)
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| Back in the days I used to juggle crack
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| Met real hip hop and fell in love with that
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| And the money along with it
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| But what’s a good time without hearing a song with it?
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| Used to wonder where the did the culture go
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| If it left did it go where it’s supposed to go?
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| Good question, no answer
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| Living slow, more like Jo Jo Dancer
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| No sniffing, no burning up
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| If he ain’t turn the mic on how the hell he turning up?
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| Design of my mind is so intricate
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| Smoke, make the rhyme up, not hard to think of it
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| Ill writer with no ink pen
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| Walter White of the bars, you Jesse Pinkman
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| (Your style is played out)
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| We shining brighter than the lights on a cityscape (New York)
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| Something’s wrong, the thrill is gone like Biggie say
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| Start a revolt like Diddy, nope, I’m not kidding
|
| With a targets, they leaving in a scope like Fifty
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| The slave mentality over, we think bolder
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| I finally kept the craft, now I’m killing these King Cobras
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| They try to take the crown, but they drown in they own blood
|
| The next time the dudes came around they showed love (Where the love?)
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| The heart is a house for love, but where your furnishings
|
| Complaining about the game, but still voting with your purchases
|
| Burning it, I murder the tournament that determine it
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| For the market and they slobbin' on the knob that we turn it with (Turn it up)
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| The bars make you follow the stars, I’m like Copernicus
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| The Gods flying up to the firmaments to feel the turbulence
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| The bullets gonna hit you from the pistols that they burnish
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| Got you praying for tourniquets, hoping that the scar ain’t permanent
|
| Come on, man |