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Welcome to a piece of brain tissue, my brain's lungs |
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Filled with octane like liquid it came from |
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Some silly, said her tits sellin' illy |
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Really? By the jar? Pump the car full of gray jelly |
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Called her Ronda, after I shit on the dash |
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'Cause I can't stand hooked up on dust |
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The three maneuver so swiftly in and out of looters |
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Through checkpoints with juice in stashed coolers |
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2002, my album's played through |
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ID on the window like it's fucking Beirut |
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Too bad, no planes flew into MTV |
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I'll never get a platinum plaque for MP3 |
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Being blackballed by a white MC Pause |
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I guess that fagot found the right MD |
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And I'm twisted but not like fagots that suck fame |
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This clown is saying I'm sicker with metal than Mudvayne |
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I train my following like a bitch modelin' |
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He is like a God and it won't stop hollerin' |
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Fuck needing a TV to be a rock star |
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Punch a hole through Mark Wahlbergs chest and dent a cop car |
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Put my brain in it, I wouldn't last a minute |
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Scribble some shit in 30, I'm love like gimmicks |
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Sluts, cynics, ducks with dipped spinach |
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Fuckin' you up in the front row's good for image |
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I gotta walk on, half feet in Harlem for a gorilla |
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That lost his family and want revenge on his killer |
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Clapped the poacher, fled the stomach of rap through and ulcer |
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Covered in blood, eating with vultures |
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Off the chain and got a hook in his back skull to my feet |
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Breastfeeding, moms was cooking up crack |
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Drop me in a pot, cop in the spot, pistols gleaming in the sun |
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Look son, I'm fistal fiendin' |
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Nine to script with leading any malicious beatings |
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Specially if feeled, if the couples bitch is breedin' |
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Six is reading, bitterly gritty |
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Caught a GTA charge before Liberty City |
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Too bad, no brains, blew out, no heads plenty |
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I'll prolly die after I blow like Ted Demme |
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There's no conspiracy, your bitch is a forced fit |
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In the telly yelling, "Behold the pale horse dick" |
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Fuck the Taliban, I'm back to Ballys and |
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Keep your little fagot brother off her Sally, man |
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I can explain this 'Do Not Cross This Line' in my brain |
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Feds in the crib but they're not finding the cane |
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'Cause time in the game, New York is trife |
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My boy T on the lamb like a fork and knife |
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The corporate life, too fond of the blonde talker |
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So I grew a beard and switched sides like John Walker |