| No cream, no sugar, Moka Only
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| Choke the microphone the way he loc and choke a phony, won’t he
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| Told 'em play ya station like a broken Sony
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| Tenderoni phone she’ll know me come and stroke the pony
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| That good lovin' deserves an encore and a Tony
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| Brats in the hood muggin, they want more raw bologna
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| Chachi needs to watch his bony skinny Joney
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| Villain finna fattin her up with Minestrone
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| Been grown, Chromoly skin tone
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| While he rock the end zone, tap your toe or chin bone
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| The choice is yours alone
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| Came for the throne, and to get the game sewn
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| Doom name known as the don for sure, troop
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| And he won’t show his face or sponsor your group
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| He sneak up and throw you for a loop
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| She peeped up, speak up if you want some more soup
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| New sues again, who do’s crews again
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| Who’s too smooth, whose flues want snooze with them
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| No surprise, no new-news to him
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| Here’s a light bulb now how many of you screw this in
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| I do better when there’s less team effort
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| Went from old blue sweater, I’m a less clean dresser
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| Full circle, back to the grind war
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| Mic by the mirror, I’m the best I ever saw record
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| Mok and Doom get it sewn like an open wound
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| Two scientists up in the lab will make it go Kaboom!
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| And said don’t mix those two properties together
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| Prob’ly end up with some empty eye sockets or whatever
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| I’m only here to hunt pleasure like some treasure
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| Never from a wack pack of bitches like the Heathers
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| After this you better hone for some loot
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| You freaks with the funk’ll make me want some more soup |