| We’re all chemicals, vitamins and minerals
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| Vicodin with inner tubes, wrapped around the arm
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| To see the vein like a chicken on the barn
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| Top Cat chat, let’s begin another yarn
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| That’s flying saucer cheese, or is it chicken parm'?
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| But roosters don’t fly like boosters don’t buy
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| So what powers cowards to get them to the top
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| Just to fall asleep listening to Bach?
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| The ribbon in the sky is the riddim that I drop
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| Dribbling the eye across the prism of a clock
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| That lacks meaning, but racks up stacks of fat reading
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| They catch Chief and wrapped up plants from trap dealings
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| Now what’s a coffin with a scratched ceiling?
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| And what’s the talking without the match feeling
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| That’s buried living? |
| And cherry picking
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| Every lemon from your berry system
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| Then proceed with the pack feeding
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| When I was young I had visions of another world
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| Sneaking looks at the porn stash of my brother, hurled
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| Incense smoke made vortices and other curls
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| Casting calls from porn films and ad space for rubber girls
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| I like my pancakes cut in swirls |
| Moroccan moles and undercover squirrels
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| I like cartoons, southern cities with large moons
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| Faith healers, ex-female drug dealers and art booms
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| Apologize for my weird mix
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| What taste like hot dogs and tear drips
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| And looks like pantomime and clear bricks
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| And smells like shotguns and deer piss
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| They on their hunt, kind of salty that I’m going hard
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| First part of a party, that I throw in parts
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| One minute you’re playing pool, next minute you’re throwing darts
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| But that’s how you do with a party that you throw in bars
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| I run the Gambit like I’m throwing cards
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| From popular mechanics to overdosing hearts
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| Paint cold pictures like Nova Scotia landscapes
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| Nerd gang, make Mandelbrot sets when we handshake
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| A word game back up plan that can dam lakes
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| Backup the wordplay playing at the man’s states
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| Means I can still be the man if the dam breaks
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| And when demand brakes I’m reflectious, what they can’t face
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| My peers will still treat the mirror like it’s a fan base
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| The unfettered veteran, the eagle feathered man of medicine |
| That hovers above cities like weather men
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| And maybe weather woman
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| Whatever better to tell ya weather comin'
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| I prefer girls to reign all over the world
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| And not rain like, rain man or rain like rain dance
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| Or rain like a slight chance of rain when it’s raining
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| Or rein like deer slaves to Santa Claus sleigh man
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| But reign like Queens that reign over made man
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| And not Queen like Queen killer, rhapsody bohemian Queen
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| But Queen, like white glove wave hand, and not wave hand, like it’s a heat wave
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| So you make a fan by waving your hand, I’m talking wave, like you saying, «Hey man!»
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| And not hay for horses, and hoarse is like you almost voiceless
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| You gotta treat your vocal chords, like it’s a fortress
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| And treat every single one of your words, like reinforcements
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| And especially when you’re recording
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| Cause that’s the portion that’s important
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| When I was reporting, that I was poor, but now I’m more than (poor)
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| It’s still hooker heels, on my sugar hills, and sweet spots
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| Crying shames, make margarita rims, from cheap tops |
| Deep plots, in floor to ceiling windows, for my peep pots
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| A little scene, with the sickle swings, to make the wheat drop
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| And a hundred words, for them hummingbirds, that like to eavesdrop
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| And fan out, like peacocks, with a parakeet that beat box
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| So the sun rise, when the beat drops, and the sun dies, when the beat stops
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| Then it unties, then it relocks, then it relapsed, then it detox
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| Then heat back, like a heat pack, on his knee caps of the weak spot
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| Cause he want what we got, like yeah
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| Then forge poetry, like a young ornery Morrissey
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| Then spit it to the golden locks thots, who like their porridge all watery
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| Not scorching, nor sorbet-y
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| From the steel orbitings, sorcerer, sorcery
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| Coming down gorgeously, just like a Stacey Dash waterfall
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| A more torturing, a water-boarding, Barbie doll
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| A river of women, like a Brazilian Carnival
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| Swimming in feminine bikinis, made out of Barbasol
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| Somebody give them the volleyballs
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| If you love her, don’t ever send her to Mally Mall’s
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| Homie, if she lonely she might end up in Macauly’s claws |
| Coming out the closet over goblets, down at Mardi Gras
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| The fame, champagne, walk of shame lobby call
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| My rap position, was black condition, and activism
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| Ammunition for abolition, missions attacking systems
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| But they’re not apt to listen, unless it’s dropping on Activision
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| Are we apps, or are we bodies filled with apparitions?
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| Operating applications, stuck inside an Apple prison
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| Chicken hackin' down-lowed updates that lack religion
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| Or are we more
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| …Than soil tainting, disloyal changelings
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| Preoccupied with boy and Goyle chasing, and foiling other’s royal saintings?
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| I sit back and watch the world through eye holes in my oil paintings
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| Uhhh! |
| Ain’t nothin' to it, but to do it
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| Unless you Virgin Mary, nothin' do it but the truest
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| Believe all that, unless you Jewish
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| Life is not a dictionary, it’s a thesaurus
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| And I feel like a missionary, to a clitoris
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| The water bearer, heir of traditions, that I swear to never change
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| My chair position, or conditions of my porridge
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| Submission for sedition, against the religion of a chorus |
| Keep them golden weave thieves, out the mothafuckin' forest
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| As I perform a nerve storm, I prefer my pictures in word form
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| Bury the hatchet, like how a bird born
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| As I paint cold pictures, like Kool-Aid facing condensation
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| Having conversations with flavorful combinations
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| Slave to my concentration, so that’s OJ da Juiceman, meets OJ with two hands
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| And two gloves, that’s too snug, to judge who was, who drew blood
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| And, Lupe look at all these toucans, in a cemetery full of tomahawks
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| Giving middle fingers, to the pigeons doing somersaults
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| Road runners don’t fall off cliffs, they run across
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| Anomalies by the colony, flukes by the reservoir
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| Wildin' pursuers end up as poofs, on the desert floor
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| Levitating youths, who know the truth of where the fountain hides
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| Buckaroo roof painting tunnels, onto the mountain sides
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| A thousand parts, a pound of heart, an ounce of eyes
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| Announcing now, the doubt in mouth, pronounces out a count of lies
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| Chocula Counts, by the count of five
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| Refrigerator roof, full of animals and monsters |
| Incinerator chutes and the manual for Contra
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| Assorted memories from my childhood
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| Absorbing energy from the wild woods
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| Electronic combat Konami sign contract
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| Chinese chalk killing cucarachas on contact
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| Chicago, spray gun aficionado
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| Efficient spitting bridging divisions isn’t Chicano
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| Who’s the Boss? |
| If it isn’t Alyssa Milano
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| Dudikoff, ninja mission into the Congo
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| Polarize envy of the older guys
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| Black obi, shinobi hittin' Kenno in the face with all my throwin' knives
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| Sub-zero guiding, hiding, riding in the pack as well
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| Sound village, Leaf village, wolf spirit, magic spells
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| Dodging rain and catching hail
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| Faces need samurais to catch the L
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| Special research vessels made for catching whales
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| Filet-o-fish ships sea-shepherded peppered with extra sails
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| Rewrite history, liberty needs a better bell
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| Maybe harder irons and carbon fibers that never fail
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| Smarter science mixed with a odd alliance of fairy tale
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| Or maybe just a metal pail you hit with steel tools
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| To announce that you’ve had enough and dropping out of SEAL school |
| Just like trout jumping out their house to let their gills cool
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| Cuba-scuba couldn’t take the temperature of my skill pool
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| Yeah, I said it feels cool to kill fools
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| Slipping through the cracks like when you try to grill gruel
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| Techno Viking water bottle and not following pill rules
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| Will have you off the throttle when you should be modelin' chill mood
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| Roller skater maker or are you just cobblin' wheel shoes
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| Overweight taster of kings food that kills crews
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| Oblivious feather-weight baker who autographed cakes whenever his quill moves
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| over your milieu
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| Simple as a Buddhist monk in a temple standing in some heel groove with the
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| abbot, practisin' stillness
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| Real still til' he realize his realness
|
| Defeat Samsara, achieves nirvana and brilliance
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| Yeah |