| «The original Jackin' For Beats: Ice Cube»
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| «Jackin' For Beats 2: Sticky Fingaz»
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| «Jackin' For Beats 3: (Straight jackin') Violent J (Brother) of ICP»
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| «What?»
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| Get chopped, wakin' the dead master
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| I’ll twist your head backwards off instinct, then my hatchet sink
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| In your back. |
| Say a prayers, my Detroit players
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| I’ll be sick juggalos, stickin' dick in the nose
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| We brush you better than you do if we choose to
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| If we use your beat eschew will lose too
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| It’s a who’s who of whose own flow we brush new
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| Soon everyone will be crushed, so we in no rush to
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| «Hatchet!»
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| «Duke is doin' it.» |
| (Straight jackin')
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| ninja bustin' 9 milli’s in the air
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| Fuckin' with these painted killer clowns, juggalos
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| I dare you, get in here, don’t even breathe our air. |
| We hear you
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| There would disappear you clear the area we share, bitch
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| You best beware, 'cause we’ll tear right through your vest, don’t spare you
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| So you’ll be left, you embarrassed, now and don’t compare us
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| 'Cause they only hearin' us and trust you whilst it homie glarin' is a must
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| Your shit’s phat without the phat, millions of fans («Hated that!»)
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| Only fresh when you fade to black. |
| That track was dope, you made it wack
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| Reverse platinum, gave 'em back that plaque. |
| They came to take it back
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| «I took your fuckin' music, and I ain’t pay to use it»
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| (Straight jackin')
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| (I'm admitted doin' shit deep down in the graveyard)
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| Your beat wasn’t shit 'til I stoled it (That's right)
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| Why the fuck would you even let me hold it? |
| (Hold it)
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| Spread my butt cheeks, lick my fuckin' milk dud (Milk dud)
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| Let my nuts hit your tonsils and throat blood (That's right)
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| Your beat wasn’t shit 'til I stoled it (Ha ha)
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| What you did with this beat was some bullshit (Ha ha)
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| Spread my butt cheeks, lick my fuckin' milk dud (Oh yeah)
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| Diss me, they’ll be slippin' on your spilled blood (Alright)
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| Hey you, bitch boy, is you dreamin'? |
| (Is you dreamin'?)
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| Open up your lips, guzzle my semen (My semen)
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| Sue me, bitch. |
| Get in line. |
| (Get in line)
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| I don’t care; |
| I’m broke. |
| That’s fine
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| (Straight jackin')
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| «Hatchet!»
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| I’m the King of Pop, 'cause I pop ninjas like a wheelie
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| Pay for this you hope. |
| Nope! |
| Your beat is dope, I steal it. |
| Feel me ninjas?
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| I pay for nothin'! |
| Nut in your whole belly button
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| Tell me somethin': why the fuck we yellin'? |
| For nothin'
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| I pluck your shit. |
| Sue me. |
| So what? |
| You nothin' to me
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| Heard you be booty stuffin' right up your doodie muffin
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| Your shit be extra roomy, blew out your fruity butt in sluttin'
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| Ruined your poop chute, it’s through with shuttin'
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| This is now Violent J’s new shit
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| And none of y’all about to do shit. |
| Check it
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| Take your fresh beat and rework it
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| And insane clown wicked here to merk it
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| Ti krem ot ereh dekciw nwolc enasni dnA
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| Ti krem ot ereh dekciw nwolc enasni dnA
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| Took your fresh beat, made it my shit
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| Start a wicked-ass juggalo mosh pit
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| Ti krem ot ereh dekciw nwolc enasni dnA
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| Ti krem ot ereh dekciw nwolc enasni dnA
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| «Yeah, even if you’re down with my crew»
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| (Yeah) «These mother fuckers need to know»
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| «Ain't no wicked shit like this Detroit wicked wicketshit»
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| Six six five, hella live
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| Liftin' this is a felony crime from the UP down I-75
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| Enemies die. |
| E and J with the heavenly vibe
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| An Esham classic, I’ma snatch it, try to match it
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| 'Cause it truly is that bad-ass shit
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| These mother fuckin' big stars in charge
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| Pluckin' shit from the underground, dippin' hard
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| Now we rippin' your shit off, livin' large
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| Straight trippin', makin' your shit ours
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| And your shit was weak until I freaked it
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| Now it’s got a whole new light
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| Weak until I freaked it (Freaked it)
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| Suddenly the groove feels right
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| I took your shit and lit it up
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| Now it’s tight and shinin' bright
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| I took your shit and lit it up
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| Hit me if you wanna fight
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| «We can thump. |
| I’ll ice that damn jaw»
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| «Yo. |
| ICP. |
| Let’s do this. |
| Ha ha ha!»
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| Alright, stop (Brother!) You never liked this track?
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| It’s mine now, mother fucker. |
| The shit phat
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| Rob’s my boy. |
| You diss his rappin'
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| Fifteen times, bitch boy. |
| Platinum
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| He fucked Madonna, or she fucked him
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| Well you fucked her jackin' off, pretend
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| 58,000,000 chillin' in the bank
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| Let’s see what you got: blank
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| «Family! |
| Family! |
| Family! |
| Family! |
| Family! |
| Family! |
| Family!» |