| I could give a fuck who honey kissin'
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| Money missin' makes me turn to Sonny Liston
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| Mercenary on a mission, enter intuition
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| Conditioned, for all the bullshit you’re dishin'
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| I’m about as hard as the times
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| I make mines off rhymes and keep dimes to blow in the wind chimes
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| A Hieroller, you die young, I die older
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| Cy Young holder for throwing this heat
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| The air brung my tongue is shellac’n the blood of the wack
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| It sharpens when I cut up the track, it darkens
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| My crew is recon, who is he, Jon?
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| All in your bitch Louis Vuitton for doin' me wrong
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| Pursuin' me to put two in me?
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| Won’t happen like crowds booin' me, MC fabulous
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| Just bust for a century mo'
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| With ammo and dough in my peripheral, here we go
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| You in analog, digital, 8-track cassette deck
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| Or on your little karaoke stereo
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| You get hands put on you
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| And DM my plans to all provide two or three hot ones in ya potnas
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| Huey P., Harriett Tub', carry the weapon
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| But y’all niggas scary as fuck and
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| I’m luck up, tucked up, in the Bay Area cuts, like what…
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| («It's my thing»)
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| Ay, I could give a fuck who honey kissin'
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| Money missin' makes me turn to Sonny Liston
|
| Mercenary on a mission, enter intuition
|
| Conditioned, for all the bullshit you’re dishin'
|
| I could give a fuck who honey kissin' («Hey»)
|
| Money missin' makes me turn to Sonny Liston
|
| Mercenary on a mission, enter intuition
|
| Conditioned, for all the bullshit you’re dishin'
|
| My rap attracts and re-enacts the facts
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| That’s just part of the art of the rhyme tactics
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| Get checked over the ice, I hit hat tricks
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| Hit 'em in the right spot in they head and they hit back… flips
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| My rap give orbits to atlas
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| And balance with the stakes that shakes the rattlers
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| Trees in a chalice, seeds in nursery school
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| And I’m still a father figure to all you niggas
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| Who test the finesse of the fest or rest collective
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| Poetics, poppin' from the proper perspective
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| What’s your mission? |
| Boy, listen
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| Do too much more dissin', you’re meetin' the mortician
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| Stepped on and trampled for tryin' to gamble
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| I’m a prime example of a rhyming cannibal
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| Razor sharp dart, beams, and lasers
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| Aimed at your neck, to break off the ice glaciers
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| I use reflectors on your motion detectors
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| Stealthy, trained and wealthy
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| Gamed and ready to take names, check Zodiac
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| I’m like Shaq, when I’m rockin' the mic, don’t react
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| («It's my thing»)
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| I could give a fuck who honey kissin' («Hey»)
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| Look, money missin' makes me turn to Sonny Liston
|
| Mercenary on a mission, enter intuition
|
| Conditioned, for all the bullshit you’re dishin'
|
| I could give a fuck who honey kissin' («Hey»)
|
| Money missin' makes me turn to Sonny Liston
|
| Mercenary on a mission, enter intuition
|
| Conditioned, for all the bullshit you’re dishin'
|
| I could give a fuck, haha |