| Yo spit, this is Step Bros
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| The same relationship as Opio and Pep Love, I cop hieroglyphics
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| I pop when I walk and I break when I hit the ground
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| I talk like a rapper, gotta hashtag «hit the pound»
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| I hit the pound high and a save a dog
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| Bring him home and let him roam in the yard, I got a cat too
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| I got a permanent tattoo, of T.A.T.U. |
| riding Tatsu
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| Humming, coming at you
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| If I had to mix it up in the pot
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| I’d rather smoke some pot, then say I forgot
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| I voted every fourth since 18 and kept voting
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| Really do appeal to other people that I’m quoting
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| Some people know me, others on that Rubik’s shit
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| Trying to match the color, most people can’t this shit
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| I used to fit the pieces of the puzzle all together
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| Now I bring umbrellas for the ever-changing weather
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| Wrote this with a feather that was kept in a Fedora
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| Put it back after and I never went on tour yet
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| One day I’ll be a tour vet, and I’m a have a deal too
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| And I’m a cop a crib by the beach with a real view
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| Melt beach, melt wax
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| Weed smelling like Clorox and Ajax
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| Melt features, felt peaches
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| Rodney Cooper like Smith Grinds and Laid Backs
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| Burn a biscuit of dope, burn a specimen
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| Step on your throat, step on your regiment
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| Cut off the competition, cut a neck
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| Cut a vocal, cut a record, cut a check
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| Write bomb threats, call (?)
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| Call a one-way for the jets
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| Step, motherfucker, step
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| Champion sound, cut the rim off of the net
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| Separate your potato head from your neck
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| Celebration bodies thrown off of the deck
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| Do Stallone numbers, gangster like Willie Colon covers
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| Written in my DNA, my bone structure
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| It’s forbidden to kill swans, unless you are a Lord
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| Like in India, the Noblemen can move cows; |
| I can move swans
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| And take them, eat them… mmm, lunch |