| This is just a test of the frequency
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| You can be a hood without delinquency
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| Cause I be the rhyme and the rhyme be me
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| Whatever I be the rhyme be
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| I break the average nigga down, just like decomposition
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| On a mission to chart the art of rhyming way beyond traditions
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| Equally, you’ll find my vision’s gone beyond the 20/20
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| Had enough of these niggas showin' me just who be on the money
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| I catch phrases out of the blue like touchdown throws to wide recievers
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| So, «Hail Mary», But you couldn’t «Run with me» if you were Gail Deavers
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| I got that monotone lyric for your recievers
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| Don’t don’t deceive us, cause we don’t believe in non-believers
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| My style is more golden than that of a child who owns retrievers
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| I shine like I’m David Helfgott, Searching for wealth, not solely
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| But baby, «Do Ya Rilly Kno What’s going on?»
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| I be that tech president that you Elec (t) like TRON
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| I base data on databases, so it’s too complicated to trace this
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| And with no flava you gotta face it, You’re tasteless
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| The way that I embrace this is like huggin' a cripple
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| Invisible individuals get scratched like they’re pickles
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| I physically tickle your mind, like water that trickles over your nipples
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| I drip, cause lyrically I keep it kinky
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| Hookers wanna drink me, but they can’t handle my tricks
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| Cause I’ve been known for putting chip-clips on my bitches' tits
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| It hits the year 2K, and it’s a whole different story
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| Don’t need will smith to talk about Miami for me
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| Cause If I got a positive vibe, and a quote from a negative source
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| Saying my Rap Sheet was Right On!, like what I’d do to the bus on my tours
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| For sure I’m not a tourist, I’m a purist
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| Came into the land of rhyme, sanded the hourglass and I cuffed the hands of time
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| To arrest your interest and express with mine
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| Niggas can check me out with ten items or less, while you regress and stand in
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| line
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| They play the way like pantomimes, I only touch ‘em with mitts
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| I tell ‘em, «Shut the fuck up!», and yo, they can’t say shit
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| I’m giving verbal facelifts to those with traces of painted faces
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| So, I’ma tell you what the case is
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| So, when it comes to the written rhyme, the ink effects are diabolical
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| Off the top of the dome like George Jefferson’s hair follicles
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| !?What?!, You put the ass in astronomical
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| Any attempt by you to even make a def jam could pass for comical
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| More psychological than movie thrillers, boxing niggas like Helena in Manila
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| Extract ‘em like vanilla/ For real, I never had a dope name to profess
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| But relied on my skill when it came to the test
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| I’m blessed in the trade of my native expression
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| If late is my time, then my rhyme be inte-resting
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| I question the power of a star
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| Cause kids be singing «love live the king», like my name was Uncle Scar
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| So, «Can you feel the buzz tonight?»
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| I never mean it in a blunt way, cause some say that they’re the fliest when the
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| drums play
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| They’re bound to go down just like morale on hump day
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| Cause once they front, an omen will hunt they’re ass down in my name
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| Cause I box out them niggas that’s surrounding my game
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| In any way shape or form
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| I did circles on those who weren’t breaking the norm
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| And I’m the first to try angles that you ain’t figured before
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| You’ve forged on more lines than my written signature
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| And my shit’ll be hitting for sure upon the canvas
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| I planned this tonight so you might understand this
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| Hook |