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One, two, I'm 'bout to set this off, like this |
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Hip-hoppers, check it |
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Another MC lose his life tonight, Lord |
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I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why? |
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Oh Lord, Father don't let him bury me, whoa |
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I haunt MC's like Mephistopheles, bringin' swords of Damocles |
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Secret Service keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy |
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Abstract raps simple with a street format |
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Gaze into the sky and measure planets by parallax |
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Check out the retrograde motion, kill the notion |
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Of bitin' and recyclin' and callin' it your own creation |
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I feel like Rockwell, 'Somebody's watching me' |
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I got no privacy whether on land or at sea |
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And for you bitin' zealots, your raps are cacophonic |
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Hypocrite, critic but deep inside you wish you had the pop hit |
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It hurts don't it, a ReFugee come to your turf |
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And take over the earth |
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See my rhymes, are the type of fly rhymes |
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That can only get down with my crew |
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And if you try to take lines or bite rhymes |
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We'll show you how the ReFugees do |
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Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, manifold on your rhymes |
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Two MC's can't occupy the same space at the same time |
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It's against the laws of physics |
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So weep as your, 'Sweet Dreams' break up like Eurythmics |
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Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects projectile |
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Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile |
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Many styles, more powerful than gamma rays |
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My grammar pays, like Carlos Sanatana plays, 'Black Magic Woman' |
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So while you fumin' I'm consumin' mango juice under Polaris |
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You just embarrassed 'cause it's your, 'Last Tango in Paris' |
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And even after all my logic and my theory |
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I add a mother****er so you ig'nant niggaz hear me |
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Crew remember take notes, as I sow my rap oats |
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And for you bitin' zealots, here's a quote |
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Ay, another MC lose his life tonight, ohh |
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I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why? |
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Oh Lord, Father don't let him bury me, aiy |
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You can try but you can't divide the tribe |
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These cats can't rap, Mr. Author I feel no Vibe, whatchu readin'? |
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The magazine says the girl should have went solo |
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The guys should stop rappin' vanish like Menudo |
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Took it to the heart but every actor plays his part |
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As long as someone was listenin', I knew it was a start |
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For me to get my chance, grab my pen and revamp, bing |
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Do a cameo while everybody do the dance |
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Quick now 'cause you runnin' out of luck-a |
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Playin' Mr. Big, 'I'm Gonna Get You Sucka' |
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While you munchin' at your luncheon |
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I'll be plannin' your assassination, bing |
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Then hit you like The Dutchman |
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I compress sound sets with my rap DBX |
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Then drop vocals on my 456 Ampex |
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Bring terror to the shop of horror |
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As she cry, 'Mi amor,' the Phantom dies in the Opera |
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And to the young'uns who carry gadgets |
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And kill six days a week, then rest on the Sabbath, hold up, hold up |
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Violence ain't necessary, unless you provoke me |
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Then get buried like the great Mussolini |
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And for you bitin' zealots, your rap styles are relics |
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No matter who you, 'Damage', you're still a false, 'Prophet' |
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Ay, another MC lose his life tonight, Lord |
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I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why? |
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Oh Lord, Father don't let him bury me, yeah |