| I’m a b-boy, that’s the best way to define me
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| Born in 81' been rhymin' since the early 90s
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| And I don’t plan on stoppin' any time soon
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| That’s why fools try to be down with my crew
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| But you recitin' feeble chatter, either that or beatin' off
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| Peace to KNONAM, breathin' patterns that’ll leave 'em lost
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| I keep a choke chain on the peoples thoughts
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| Teach the whole game how to read between the chalk
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| Okay we so crazy don’t play me just pay me you babies
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| I break teeth on fake freaks and maybe, just maybe you might live
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| That’s solely dependent upon your mic skills
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| You rap slowly homey, no regard for what’s I’ll
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| Still I hope you’re not the nicest of your teammates
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| I’m your worst nightmare, you like a whack emcees dream date
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| A walkin' target, plus an awful artist
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| What you talk is often fuckin' garbage
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| The public regrets the fact they have to hear your music
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| What you call spittin' looks more like involuntary droolin'
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| Say I’m stupid for entertainin' rumors
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| But I heard you give your favorite producer
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| Head in trade for his creative juices
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| We makin' music, just tryin' to put the fun back in
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| Turntablism, lyricism, ain’t no gun packin'
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| It’s hard to swallow even my simple sentence
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| So bitin’s not recommended by 9 out of 10 dentists
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| I step on snakes and yes I’ll make a mess on tape cassettes
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| With my brother ain’t no other quite like my mellow my man
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| So Abilities, let me hear you make some funky music with your hands
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| (Ooo you love it!)
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| War like, solo, drums, and vocals
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| Guaranteed to put your attention span in a choke hold, peace
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| We just representin' for all the hip-hoppers worldwide
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| Emcees, DJs, b-boys, graff-writers, everybody in the house
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| Yeah, Blueprint in the house
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| Uh-huh, Day Light in the house
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| Uh-huh, E-Wok in the house
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| Yeah, Mr. Dibbs in the house
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| Uh-huh, X-Cal in the house
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| Uhh, Abomination’s in the house
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| Uhh, Head Shots in the house
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| Yeah, Rhymesayers and we out, PEACE |