| The first miss is that you listen, the second’s in suspicion
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| The third is rhyme addiction, whenever I be spittin
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| I’m flipping better flows. |
| I think in decibels
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| This is the desert and you’re stupid wearing leather clothes
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| Don’t get it twisted bitch, I’m good at evil shit
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| Walk up in a church and make a preacher scream out 'Holy Shit!'
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| This niggas triple-six, but the reverse of it
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| Slaughter tracks sorta like the murders commited by Berkowitz
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| Devoted vocalist, overflowing explosive poet riffs
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| Don’t play or beef with me, lyrics come to me easily
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| Sporadically transmitting freestyles, telekinetically
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| I burn heat with 3rd Degree emergencies, Urge Mcs with Urgency
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| Wage a whimsical war of written words with me
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| Prefer to eat the weak verbally
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| Speech is refered to as unique verbal surgery
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| It’s LouCipher, cast out of heaven for throwing power trips
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| You need a graphing calculator to count the amount of clowns I rip
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| Cause once the instrumental drops, it’s obvious the heads’ll bop
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| And your mind will get molested
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| Like an unsuspecting alterboy with a dirty priest in the confession box
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| Cause any amount of bars with no hook will leave your flow shook
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| You couldn’t come across a dope rhyme if you jerked off on my notebook
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| This Fallen Angel, stronghold affiliate
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| Will make even the hardest rapping thug look like a silly bitch
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| Always killin it
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| And you must’ve lost your sense of touch if you ain’t feeling it
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| A Strongholder of Mics the second I grab it
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| I’ll stab your ideas till your thoughts are laid out in a casket
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| You’ve just been decapitated, put the fucking head in a basket
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| Don’t incite my wrath
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| Your writtens are the shit, cause I used em to wipe my ass
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| Yo, It’s PackFM and strongheezy, roll like dice that’s in monopoly
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| Game like Parker Brothers, niggas ain’t coming as properly
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| You ain’t on to that? |
| Then, you gots to be… Fuck your thoughts of battling me
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| Forget about it, bout it, there’s no limit to my masterpiece
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| This nonsense has to cease, cause Pack’s a beast on the loose
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| Whippin kids like child abuse, once I put my style to use
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| Steppin' to me with an excuse is useless, cause I’m too slick
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| Styles are ruthless, leave you with no use for toothpics
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| My title’s undisputed, but right now, I’m at my peak
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| Every bar that I freak opens doors like Dominique
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| The rhymes you kick are kinda weak, Definition of obsolete
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| You never felt this kinda heat, find my style hard to freak
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| Next time you feature me, you’d better put this shit first
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| Cause cats will skip through the whole CD just to hear my verse
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| I’m cursing any available rhyme-merchant
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| So, try purchasing 9 verses of my verbal assertions
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| Turning your words worthless
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| Tonedeff with Stronghold? |
| That’s like, Damn! |
| No words to describe this
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| Even Bob Barker knows that it’s priceless
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| Time to ignite this, I claim know things
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| And your Flightless, like an being Ostrich on a plane with no wings
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| Cause we be the bilingual flow kings
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| They won’t allow me in battles anymore
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| Cause the clubs I hit are non smoking
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| I be thought-provoking, spit at pop-filters until they soaking
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| Leave wack emcees HOPPING mad like sapos screaming COQUI
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| I blow the fucking house down in one PUFF
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| Regardless of how I sever hearts, it’s One Love
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| Concealing my skills is a Tough Bluff
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| Like playing the poker with a straight face
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| With aces being the only cards that come up
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| Your whole crew is dumb-fucks they trying to front with they guns up
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| It’s all peace, but in prom night fashion they get done up
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| I play for 1-Ups, but don’t march to the drum of fate
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| If I got one life to live, then I rob cats for the other eight
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| And count it down, 1−2-3−4-5
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| The illest underground hip-hop, we bring it to you live
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| For 2000 Milleni-I, it’s like that
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| If this shit is off the chain, fuck it y’all; |
| we stole the bike-rack |