| «When I was a kid, we used to play a game—»
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| «I think you know the rules of our game.»
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| «I have no time to play games.»
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| Sometimes I flow staccato
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| Strip you of vibrato
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| While you be acting macho
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| I try and switch it up
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| I see the games you play
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| And the traps you lay
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| Not fit to fall in
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| But I let you play them anyway
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| Sometimes I flow staccato
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| Strip you of vibrato
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| While you be acting macho
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| I try and switch it up
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| I see the games you play
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| And the traps you lay
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| Not fit to fall in
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| But I let you play them anyway
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| Sit, hear the clock tick
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| Watch the leaves on the plant flick
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| From the fan above, the room and I lit
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| Head trip, deliberate
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| Cease fighting the feeling and submit, flow with it
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| Like the path pre-exists in hidden codes Masonic
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| They peep us like a web cam from the pyramid’s attic
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| Passed from hand to hand, let’s say coincidence
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| Or better yet, sixth sense
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| My instincts telling me to back up from that handshake that was intense
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| My instincts telling me to back up from that handshake that was intense
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| Brush it off and commence
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| Blame it on myself tripping
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| Till shit hits the fan
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| 'Cause I steered from the plan
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| About face, and Billy Jean step into place
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| Throw my coat on the hook
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| Recap the time that I wasted
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| I know that spitting’s a bad habit
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| But I can’t help the taste
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| Still searching for the clues as it becomes a cold case
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| Procrastinator
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| 'Til I think to remove the sheet from your face
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| Reveal the naysayer
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| Sometimes I flow staccato
|
| Strip you of vibrato
|
| While you be acting macho
|
| I try and switch it up
|
| I see the games you play
|
| And the traps you lay
|
| Not fit to fall in
|
| But I let you play them anyway
|
| Sometimes I flow staccato
|
| Strip you of vibrato
|
| While you be acting macho
|
| I try and switch it up
|
| I see the games you play
|
| And the traps you lay
|
| Not fit to fall in
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| But I let you play them anyway
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| «How could you do this to me?»
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| «Me, me, me, me—don't you ever get tired of thinking about your dull, greedy,
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| small self?»
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| Now you ain’t saying nada
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| Sweating, getting hotter
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| Change your tune, why bother
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| I’m bought to rip you up
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| Such a control freak
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| You mouth the words I speak
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| You question me, but you ain’t even listening
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| Your world is make believe
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| But I keep pretending that I’m flexible
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| So you think your will’s got me bending
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| Putting all your energy into negativity
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| You holding over me while you’re steady scheming
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| But I’m making moves
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| While you’re sleeping and dreaming
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| Of being larger than life
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| Your own hype you believing
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| Well now, you’ve been faking the funk since the beginning
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| Too many chapters in now to rewrite and fix the ending
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| Besides, you question what kind of message that be sending
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| That you’s a chump, punk butt, so what
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| I care not of the role you choose to play
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| By the way
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| I’m sure of a beginning and an end
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| But everything in between is all grey
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| All grey, all grey, all grey
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| Sometimes I flow staccato
|
| Strip you of vibrato
|
| While you be acting macho
|
| I try and switch it up
|
| I see the games you play
|
| And the traps you lay
|
| Not fit to fall in
|
| But I let you play them anyway
|
| Sometimes I flow staccato
|
| Strip you of vibrato
|
| While you be acting macho
|
| I try and switch it up
|
| I see the games you play
|
| And the traps you lay
|
| Not fit to fall in
|
| But I let you play them anyway
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| «I don’t understand this game.» |