| Yo, when we do this, fans throw they hands up like
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| Wacky-waving-inflatable-arm flailing-tube man
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| Pack a venue, put the stage on the menu
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| Continue coming with force out of this world like the Ginyu
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| You ain’t never seen this, kid from the future
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| Unsheathing his genius, trunks on some DBZ shit
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| My mic check’s the kiss of the dragon
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| Jet Li in a black mask, kicking late supporters off the back of the bandwagon
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| The boom bap Ermac, using sorcery to kick raps with
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| African American black magic
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| Fuck a gun, purple my DBZ shit
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| Cut a rapper tongue while he emceeing, he ain’t even see it
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| Towards him coming like them WorldStar punches
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| The crowd start forming then yo heart start thumping
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| Bass pumping, moving yo feet, we shaking up the streets
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| Godzilla feet, beat Rodan in a beat
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| metaphors, bounty hunting Boba Fett, Megazord
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| Punching out contenders like Ganondorf
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| While these labels using interpolation to hide samples
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| Removing the soul, the jungle of radio club anthems
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| Too creative for living dormant — super human black boy
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| Vocally Virgil Hawkins, static shocking my chakras
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| The dialect is electric
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| The luminous explosion of energy outshine the whole galaxy
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| Supernova soliloquies
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| The lyrical lobotomist
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| As I break ground, sonar, my boom bap rocking shit, I shift the continent
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| Word is bond with beats like a symbiote
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| Building pyramids with all my mental blocks
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| Beat a beat, could be the Ramses of the rap scene
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| Pharaohs and free kings blessing download links, preach
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| Say your graces, hail marying they faces
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| They Pastor Ma$e and the Bad Boys have been forsaken
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| Relay the message, thumping in your section
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| It’s not a cypher, this is a sparring session
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| Use your mind as a weapon, we detonate on a record
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| T-minus 3, 2, 1 seconds, now mic check it
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| Pacifist kids turn anarchist
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| The archer artist adjust the scope, focused as Clint Barton
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| Bending corners with a poison gas arrow for six targets
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| Don’t get me started, uh, spawn and dearly departed
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| Bringing maximum carnage, be your own Basquiat
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| Put yourself in your art and originality’s tarnished by
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| Fear, not belonging, that’s what you walk on your own two for
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| Welcome to the Clone War
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| Repeat it, tell ‘em copy that
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| I have ‘em saying 10−4 — nigga 10−4
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| Gamma rays, microwaves, and tinfoil
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| Sparking minds, young intellectuals, I am light, illuminate
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| We as bright as a bezel, that’s why we shining on levels
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| Keep an eye on the treble
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| Downloading an album, Jack Sparrow
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| We stick to the script, but coffee stains turn me to improv
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| You couldn’t hang with a sprained ankle, escaping the lynch mob
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| Mechanical maniac, mechanism do the knowledge
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| Cannibalistic mind opening Anthony Hopkins
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| I got a jetpack with two handles made out of microphones
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| Blast these raps off when I blast off
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| Leonidas when writing, two hundred and ninety nine people behind
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| Soldiers without the guns
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| The one, the author from Sparta they bring us to be fearless
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| Surround us with drugs and violence
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| Then move to the suburbs where cops become your new rivals
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| (Sir, do you know what I’m stopping you for?)
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| As the world keep spinning ‘round, thunder clouds, lightning showers
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| Shining down, raining, hit the ground and burn down the town
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| Staring at these man-made bright lights
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| I got sun in my eyes, my lids wide
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| I’m climbing — staring at these walls, all four sides
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| For three nights, I ain’t even blink twice
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| One time behind me, one time beside me
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| Looking up, up in the sky, praying that I start flying
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| Like angels with wings and a halo, they know
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| Fuck do they know, these kids shooting like it’s Halo 4
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| With 4−5's, where we tell ‘em |