| Life is a blast when you know what you’re doin
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| Best to know what you’re doin 'fore your life get ruined
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| Life is a thrill when your skill is developed
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| If you ain’t got a skill or trade, then shut the hell up
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| My rhymes is like droppin your head on cement
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| Crackin' it open hopin to make a dent; |
| I’m hell-bent on
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| Resurrection, per-fection
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| Lesson #1: rekindle the essence
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| Rap ain’t about bustin caps and fuckin bitches
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| It’s about fluency with rhymin ingenuity
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| All of this is new to me, see I peep rhymes
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| With scrutiny, under a microscope I walk a tightrope
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| A thin line between insanity and sanity
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| Mixed with a little vanity, boostin the morality
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| With Hiero hospitality, soon to strike it rich
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| Like calories, salaries, ahh sounds like a plan
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| And, I will expand hip-hop as well
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| Might even kick a little impromptu, to stomp you
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| Weaklings, speaking things foreign to the human ear
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| That, you will fear now, whether you like it or not
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| Blood clots on your little life on the situation
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| And on the stipulations… the shit you wastin
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| Time on you pawns, it was planned like that
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| But we can fight back, like David Horowitz
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| And say we want no more of this
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| And put it in a cyrogenic status
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| Replace it with the latest in technology
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| Hip-Hop policies that demolish ya follies
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| Olly olly oxen free, get off of me
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| You can’t see this, your defeatist attitude’ll
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| Get you nowhere fast, I tend to my task cause
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| Don’t even start on the next man, let’s scan
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| Your situation, you still have no patience
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| Flip on niggas, rob niggas, even family
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| All the way up to your moms -- you can’t stand to be
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| In the house, but when you kicked out you beggin
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| To come back in then the same old skit happens
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| You say you rappin but you don’t know the essence
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| Just ho slap and bustin caps is your message
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| Plus every time I put some scrill down, you steal it
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| If that’s your way of teachin me a lesson I don’t feel it
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| Your raps reflect your life and that’s a shame
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| Cause the way you’re soundin, you must think that it’s a game
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| I can see if you came from the ghetto, but you came
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| From the Meadow -- you really need to let that go
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| You got no respect for hip-hop, and you tryin to rhyme
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| Biding your time and I find it a crime
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| I even tried to bury the hatchet man, cause we all African
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| You wanna be a rapper? |
| Start practicin', you can’t even flow right
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| Spend most of your time fuckin hoes, getting in fights
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| Hangin out, with no mission in life
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| And you’re missing your life, and you’ll be missing out on life
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| I won’t sweat you for that G you stole
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| Cause if you’re still alive, I’ll be there to see you fold
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| Told ya!
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| You could be a rapper, an actor, a gun clapper
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| A comedian providing laughter, as a bachelor
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| A pastor of a chapter, a doctor, a lawyer
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| A fireman, a hired hand, whether boy or girl
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| It’s your world. |
| your future you control it
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| Whatever you do early on, is how you mold it
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| I record it, sold it, told it to you
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| Mr. Del wouldn’t tell you nothin that ain’t true, because
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| Think you’re able to label the Hiero sound?
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| You still haven’t found a comparable variable
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| You think you’re able to label the Hiero sound?
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| You still haven’t found a comparable variable
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| All you marks… YEAH!
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| This the freshest shit and you know it |