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Now who you know leave the scene |
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Messier than canvas's by |
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Jackson Pollock |
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Throwing multicolored thoughts at a rapid pace |
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I make a mess you dissect it and make sense of it |
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Then get back to me at your earliest convenience |
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Check my verbal sequence as |
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I texturize these tracks |
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Seven layers to be exact eliminate the whack |
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With a firm brush stroke |
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I mc paintily |
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Lyricists begin crumbling from my scumbling technique |
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As I tweak your audio and visual keep my drips minimal messages subliminal |
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Cause me and rap go way back we compliment |
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So together we enhance one another that's common sense |
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High intensity catches the eye your jaw drops |
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Be a real critic not explicit with false props |
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I keep my darks deep my lights bright |
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I'm very thorough |
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With my churascurro inspiration spark and a knife |
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Now watch me rock the spot like ? minus the heroin |
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And make my face popular like |
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Andy did to |
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MarilynIts kinda scary when real art gets left behind |
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While they take bullshit and start sellin it to blind folks |
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But I remain humble as long as ? continues spinnin hot shit |
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On his twin twelve-hundred color wheels of steel |
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Fuck mass appeal art is art only the real can truly feel it |
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So open your eyes and listen |
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Combine your ears with vision |
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Or do it cause you love it |
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Or for cash that's your decision |
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That's your decision |
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That's your decision |
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Its like I'm torn between two worlds |
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A paintbrush and a microphone |
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A canvas or a beat |
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CD or LPAnything goes when my ink pen flows |
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And God only knows where its gonna bring me next |
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So I'm inclined to like paint rhymes and spit kaleidoscopes with one eye closed |
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And I suppose if you chose the path that |
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I choseYou know the cycle ass ho don't front |
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It goes inspiration and productivity then a sense of self worth and in steps depression |
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Like back and forth and forth and back |
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Should I paint a picture or record a track |
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A gift or a curse |
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I don't know |
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I'm still undecided |
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But over the years |
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I've found clever ways to hide it |
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And those that lack the passion |
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I have may despise it |
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But my momma made me this way |
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I thank her everyday |
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So tell them kids to keep coloring outside the lines |
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Until they lose they limitations and they minds is free |
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Tell them teachers that you want your money back this time |
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And tell Bob |
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Ross for all the happy little trees |
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And tell my momma that her baby boy is doing just fine |
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Although hes running out of patience but his mind is free |
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And tell my pops that |
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I'll pay his money back sometime |
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And that his son is two steps away from where he needs to be |