| This is hip-hop, MC’s get busy
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| It’s not pop, you’ll front and you’ll get dropped
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| You’re listening to slanged out goodies, and Timberlands and hoodies
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| With the rhythm that came from the streets
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| I was a young one at the time, but started Mic Trippin'
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| Had rhythm like Ali, when he was rope skipping
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| I got crazy, when I heard the break beat
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| I used to lose it on niggas on 4th and Main Street
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| They couldn’t stop the attack, once I moved forward
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| Many was drawn back, assault was seen awkward
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| Only armed with the bow, and a mad flow
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| Poisonous arrows on a mark, that was set to go
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| Traveling at high speeds, towards a target
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| I never hit bystanders in crowded markets
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| Documenters catch this most intimate footage
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| In the center they come close, label it the hooded
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| Remarkable clips, of an uncut episode
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| They was given the safe, but never was left the code
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| Close up of those, who have paved the road
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| Invincible armor like that nigga we call The Toad
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| This is hip-hop, MC’s get busy
|
| It’s not pop, you’ll front and you’ll get dropped
|
| You’re listening to slanged out goodies, and Timberlands and hoodies
|
| With the rhythm that came from the streets
|
| This is hip-hop, MC’s get busy
|
| It’s not pop, you’ll front and you’ll get dropped
|
| You’re listening to slanged out goodies, and Timberlands and hoodies
|
| With the rhythm that came from the streets
|
| Havoc on the block, shots from the ratchet, sizzle pop
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| Slugs spinning outta control, body’s drop
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| You know the saying in the hood, fuck the cops
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| Certified on the clock, them ducks with metal Glocks
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| It takes place on the planet in rocks
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| Take nothing for granted, raised by these thieves and bandits
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| The enchanted, sticky green keeps my eyes slanted
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| Hard times coming up in the ghetto, but the Sunn manage
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| Watch me take advantage, get it, split it, panoramic
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| The notes I «e, water like the great Atlantic
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| Never catch me frantic, swift with the antics
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| Bitch niggas vanish, niggas, they run rapid
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| Sun of a Man, son of the sun, son of a gun
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| Breaded from the slums of each one and teach one
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| What’s done is done, son, the game is made
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| Stay sharp like switchblades, continue to get paid
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| This is hip-hop, MC’s get busy
|
| It’s not pop, you’ll front and you’ll get dropped
|
| You’re listening to slanged out goodies, and Timberlands and hoodies
|
| With the rhythm that came from the streets
|
| You know a muthafuckin' hit when it split ya wig back
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| Young Gatling, strapping a.38 revolver
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| It’s going down, wait for the sound, my soldiers rally round
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| Ninja men, blending in, with the surrounding
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| 'Nuff gunmen, 'nuff Flatbush yardmen strapped with the vest
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| No pussy test the God, the grounds is well held
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| Illegal desert eagle, cadaver dog
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| Search for the body that’s lost, of course, it’s BK
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| You heard niggas got killed for sheik coats and big ropes
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| Legendary students that sold coke, some blocks that’s still hot
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| From shots popped back in '88
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| The black gate where son lay, never made the paper
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| Just another caper pulled by a masked killer, broad day light
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| Crown Heights, some are Fahrenheit, heat blazing
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| Cops on the beat, stop the money flow of the street
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| My dough is whole wheat, the fam gotta eat
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| This is hip-hop, MC’s get busy
|
| It’s not pop, you’ll front and you’ll get dropped
|
| You’re listening to slanged out goodies, and Timberlands and hoodies
|
| With the rhythm that came from the streets
|
| This is hip-hop, MC’s get busy
|
| It’s not pop, you’ll front and you’ll get dropped
|
| You’re listening to slanged out goodies, and Timberlands and hoodies
|
| With the rhythm that came from the streets
|
| «Come On!»
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| «This is hip-hop» |