| Don’t be afraid to call my name
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| Step up, step up
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| Okay, the west back, yeah the proof is us
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| I got a rag on my head cause the roof is up
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| The R-Y-U, comin' with the stupid stuff
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| I got her foamin' at the mouth like a loofah sponge
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| I don’t claim no set yet I’m a threat to riders
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| And I got a few tecs in the L.A. riots
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| Yeah I’m L.A.'s finest, serve and protect
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| The street from wack shit, I deserve respect
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| On the sneak tip, I came in the game to slay them
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| I had the world singin' 2K4 verbatim
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| Brave and dumb
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| 818's favorite son
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| Disintegrate them like my tongue was a laser gun
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| Yeah yeah
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| Backpack rapper I guess
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| But I wear it in the front like a suicide vest
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| If hip hop is dead how do you define death?
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| Only way it ever died is if Tak and I left
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| So what a dude gotta do to prove his sickness?
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| In a world full of bougie dip shits
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| I cooly reach for the uzi, lift it
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| Click the tooly back and blow brains to a gooey liquid
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| Don’t be afraid to call my name
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| I started off, fresh off the head
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| Then I wrote songs and left y’all for dead
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| Now I got a plot, time to cook this omelet
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| And knock it out the box like the Brooklyn Dodgers
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| Hmmm
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| Do your dance, the beats are grizzly
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| I’m chewing through your camp like a piece of Wrigleys
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| Man for the fight, I’m destroying your name chump
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| Your man on the mic is more annoying than James Blunt (Beautiful)
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| So ring around the phoney
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| You’re kicked in the lip with a brown Saucony
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| Upchuck your billy bang bang get off me
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| Please, your body looks like a scene from Saw 3
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| Ughh
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| Yeah, I’m whiskey sippin'
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| Risky business, killin' Dixie Chickens
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| Therapeutic sicks, have a disposition
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| A Garbage Pail Kid still in mint condition
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| Slow it down, they’re holding me hostage
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| Cause when I go to town, man I’m totally awesome
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| Shots to my people in Galats so stand on by, back
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| Choppin' like I’m Afro Samurai
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| Don’t be afraid to call my name |