| Rock, rock, rock on
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| Rock, rock, rock on
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| I’m going to tell you the truth whether you like it or not
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| Can I prove it?
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| Yes
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| Why no more days like those?
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| Allow me to put some sense on you coons
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| Too much success, um, here comes your doom
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| They told you niggas the sky’s the limit
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| Then they turn around and tell you that there’s footprints on the moon
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| You rise to fame and die, so they can say that you barely won
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| And they keep your masters, your kids become bastards
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| Having to ask executives for their daddy records
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| Sounding like Blind Mellow Jelly son
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| Look in my eyes, you can tell I’m violent
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| I might go diving inside a fine female on the Maldives island
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| I vow to never fail my phonics until I’m real iconic
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| And you can throw me in a cell, I got it
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| I go to jail bout eight, go «oh well» then post bail bout nine-ish
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| I treat that bitch like it’s a hotel, check in it then check out it
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| Then tell my niggas, let the rest doubt it
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| These rap niggas bugged out, like divas, they drugged-out thugged-out receivers
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| I meet them at their stash place, heat them
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| Then tell them, they better drag race the fuck away from me
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| Or get their mug shot, like Bieber
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| I catch him at the bus stop, while he reading
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| This .45 will give him the same hollow Lux got
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| I represent, the must haves and whatnots
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| Niggas that used to cut class, to touch cash and buck shots
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| You should know
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| (But you don’t really want nothing)
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| You should know
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| (Talk a bunch of shit, motherfucker stop fronting)
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| You should know
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| (So what you saying yo?
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| Keep playing y’all niggas will burn)
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| You should know
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| (Fuck the whole world)
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| Freedom or jail, clips inserted
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| A baby’s being born, same time a man is murdered
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| The beginning and end, you on a block, playing killer with your knife
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| Without a gun you’re an option, be cut out for the game
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| Or they’re gon play rock, paper, scissors with your life
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| I’m usually more spiritual at night
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| Cause murder’s in the air, more like a Pippen Nike
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| Whipping white, the white American kryptonite
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| Living a scripted life, a different kick, a different type
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| Whoever fixing chicken rice, I’ll spend the night
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| In the morning go home to my wife, before she try and sell my shit
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| Ninety nine percent sure, that she gon' try and smell my dick
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| Thirsty niggas is praying to hell I slip
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| The baddest bitches, the last bitches you would’ve ever imagined
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| Would’ve had chlamydia, getting dragged to cities
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| City after city, niggas paying cash for the love of ass and titties
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| (Pick it up)
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| I don’t know why y’all so highly regarded
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| You rhyme like you’re borderline mildly retarded
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| I show you what my father done started
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| I rhyme on a god level, the godliest artist
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| Y’all follow artists who target their audience
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| But not me, I target the artist, follow the target
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| Holding a strap, pointing it at sinners
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| And that’s when I tell them like Kobe to Shaq, «You lazy and I’m tired of your
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| jogging»
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| Shoot at their feet 'til the dance start, I'm going H.A.M. |
| in the slaughterhouse
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| Fuck you and your damn charts, and your crowd participation
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| I’m putting a land mine under your stage, had his place raining fan parts
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| And called that shit crowd precipitation
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| I’m more premier, than my own DJ and Pac’s brother
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| I came out of my momma’s womb, with a box cutter
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| Lyrical spitting image, that mirrors the birth of Slim
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| None of these rappers can work with me, I work with them
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| On the vocals
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| You have Detroit’s own Dwele
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| Providing the instruments
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| We have
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| The incomparable Adrian Younge
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| And on the wheels of steel
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| DJ Premier
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| Yeah
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| (I say, and I’ll say it again
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| I’m not the kind of person who come here to say what you like) |