| Yo yo
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| We rude bwoys Van-city outlaws
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| Yo, the Red reaper, bust back your street sweeper
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| Call Mr. Martin and the preacher
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| To the saloon, the showdown high noon
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| Men dressed all black, yo pon cock platoon
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| Outlaws, shedding blood by the liter
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| Saddle up, ride into the sun, done defeat ya
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| Ride out and scout a safe hideout
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| With a bounty on my head, that’s the word of the moth
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| Misfit and Red, wanted alive or dead
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| But Billy bad on the draw, cowboy ninja dread
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| Retreat to the bush where the Indians live
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| To survive off the land, recuperating
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| Yo, walk the warpath like a brave Mohican
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| Then scalpel the tongue chief rocker speaking
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| Young gun, bust and murder the sound boy
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| Anything in my way, no choice but to destroy
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| «Hold my ground like it’s high noon» [-- Inspectah Deck
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| Trigger happy, blazing these mics to this undoubtedly
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| Unanimous that we the champ, to center your cipher
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| And blow up the ship, just to get a rep, that’s the way we step
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| Droppin rhymes, so clean out the top
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| You think I had a violent
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| Naughty locks chopping you down like box cutters
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| Spreading this lyric on the ideo like butters
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| Gripping neck, keeping next, the style that you missing
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| But you be getting it from the rendition
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| Hitting this rap game with some tight shit to remain
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| Cause it’s only the quicker the dead and I must remain
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| You know the name, Misfit, speed of the mantis
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| Rhymes will split your wig at ten paces, show down shit
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| So bring it, you had your warning
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| Mr. Martin, is on his way with an open coffin
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| Talking your way out of this, won’t happen
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| We taking it to the front of the stage with a gun clapping
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| And when we done with your, we run your crew out of town
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| Dis that shit, stomp your wack lick sound
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| Never come around or let us catch you on the rebound
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| We pound suckers like cats who can’t rap, who want to clown
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| Yo dressed and ready to shoot, in my bad boy suit
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| Pistol grip on the hip like these cowboy boots
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| Ready to rip, some running judgement day coming
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| When we clack and reload like Kardinal done it
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| And ban it from the ground to the roof
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| 'Nuff chat dem rats, se we leave no proof
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| As we move, rarely got nothing to prove
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| Rough ride and abide by none of the rules
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| Work our vibe, watch the hand read the eyes
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| Quick draw, nobody moves nobody dies
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| Yo, we in control let the story be told
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| By the Rascal outlaws from the north coast
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| What, you didn’t know, FitnRed handle them foe
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| Take of the them soul, hang 'em out, let them die slow
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| And account of who the best was when they roll
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| Granted by the hand passage who afraid to explode
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| Yeah yeah, that’s the way it goes
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| Anti-??? |
| behold, we lay down tracks while the rest of be told
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| So best move and gets go, act like you’ve been told
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| By the heat of the sun or the tongue, when we let go
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| **Chorus continues in background**
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| Word, see what I’m saying
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| Rascalz, straight up we ain’t playing
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| North west side of things
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| The Outlaws laying it down
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| The story’s already been told
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| Rascalz, is the way we come brother
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| Word *repeated*
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| «That sound, is there time for hope?» |
| [-- ??? |