| Lets begin. |
| E-F-@-Double-M
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| At the top with rhymes, when we droppin lines
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| The line drop… spit it at the proper time
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| Cause if it’s wack, it’s yours, but if it’s hot… it's mine
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| Battle rap bastard raw beat heathen
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| Wack rappers suck so much they bleed semen
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| You bare bitch feeble we scare rich people
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| Your best verse worse than the Blair witch sequel
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| We’re so lethal, You’re see through like peep holes
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| Your style makes no sense, Like whispering to deaf people
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| Yo the fags talking all that jazz like Duke Ellington
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| Smack’em so hard my fingerprints are on their skeleton
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| We’re much better than all of you wannabe felons
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| When we’e done, you’ll use the ice on your wrist to calm the swelling
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| Take your life by scaring you half to death twice
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| Props to cats e-mailing. |
| Throwing us compliments
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| Spitting confident, make you wonder where your mama went
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| Cause we’re rocking it. |
| Rhymes in perfect rhythm
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| Diss? |
| You don’t wanna go there, like Turkish prison
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| Your mom? |
| Bitch on her knees like she works for Jism
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| Have her lips looking like some bird shit hit em
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| Get him? |
| Your snippets make a better circumcision
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| Diss eF@mm, you’d better pucker up slow like a turtle kissin
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| I’m certain your missing the illest lyricist if
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| If you’ve never witnessed a 4-Family nigga burn a victim
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| I turn a rhythm on it’s side, verbal with the homicide
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| Cause our words are heavy, whenever we drop lines
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| EF@mm is dropping lines with extensions
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| I’m commencing to wreckin' this setup with plenty of recommendations
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| Outta frustration, Alotta brothers be sending for reparations
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| So, hot, that niggas be checkin the ventilation
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| Invasion! |
| Make 'em say HOLD UP, without a second of hesitation
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| We Check our medication
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| Like, damn yo, I don’t feel shit… but we still sick
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| Eat a wack cat to take pills with, but we spill spit with the ill shit
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| I write flows vexed
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| Stepping is crazy, we beat nuts like Psycho Les
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| Give me the mic don’t test better fight your best
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| Styles hang heavy like size O breasts
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| U. Violet Ef@mm connect 4. Face fucked with the mic like oral sex
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| Fuck So So Def let a homo test
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| Watch how I let a nigga know slow death
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| Damn! |
| Efamm, we’re the wicked MC’s
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| Switch the beat and we kick it with ease
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| When I’m Some What Vexed, you’ll be weak in the knees
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| Tried to stay away from beef and got mad chicken disease
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| Got a tendancy to go back and forth
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| You can’t fuck with our style so you’re jackin' off!
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| When my lines drop, it’ll make your spine pop
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| My lines drop jaws, make your shorty drop drawers
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| So cold — drop temperatures, Cop this when it drops in the stores
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| HipHop, Drum & Bass I got the soul
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| When I heat shit up, stop drop and roll
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| We be that E-F-@-double M… Lyrically we troublesome
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| Battle mad crews but none will win
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| Got niggas like dice that’s tumbling
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| We like cracks in the sidewalk, you stumbling
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| Makin you strudder when I talk, bumbling
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| We humble men, the flood comes from within
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| Your show’s all talk like Ed Sullivan
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| We come to win
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| Under your breath, like short folks that be muttering
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| When we uttering, we’re thundering
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| Rhyme juggling while you’re sputtering
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| A fair fight’s me and a hundred men
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| Abort them wack rhymes you motherin'
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| Slap you so hard — need Bufferin
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| Keep these bitch niggas sufferin'
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| Just like the U.S. government
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| Pull strings like a republican
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| Keep you wonderin' where your mother been
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| Style’s old like Donald Sutherland
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| Your corny style needs buttering
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| I should’ve wrote for this, duhduhduhduhduhda (mumbled)
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| Ayo, Pack stop mumbling!
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| Man, fuck it then… the hook’s coming in! |