| Yeah
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| Yeah! |
| That’s what I’m talkin about!
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| Let’s do it… Kanye West, c’mon turn me up and
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| Black Thought, c’mon turn me up and
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| Pharoahe Monch, c’mon turn me up and
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| Talib Kweli in the house with
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| Guerrilla Monsoon rap — all the shorties like «who dat?»
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| Got the whole crowd like «how ya do dat?»
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| Nigga you, get smacked 'til ya blue black
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| And ya crew, give me dap like true dat
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| We come through and all the shorties like «who dat?»
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| Got the whole crowd like «how ya do dat?»
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| Nigga you, get smacked 'til ya blue black
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| And ya crew, give me dap like true dat
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| Yo, I hit these emcees with the grip of death like I was a Vulcan
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| Ain’t a lot of «ifs» an «ands», it’s just straight talkin'
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| It’s hard to swallow at times, so take portions
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| Bitin' off more than you can chew, create orphans
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| Emcee species endangered like dolphins
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| Rappers is spittin' nails into they own coffins (c'mon)
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| Hear come the Dundee moves rocket-launchin' (yeah)
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| Black Thought, quit playin' him close and back up off him
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| Kweli -- spruce to the tree, Bruce to the Lee
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| The real emcee, that your favorite rapper used to be
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| One by one I knock 'em out like Schoolly D — my rhymes is eulogy
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| A flea could move a tree, before ya think ya movin' me
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| I black and blue emcees — actin' new to me, get smacked stupidly
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| They lack skills, like the black community lack unity (uh)
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| Still my rhymes hurt like Ali to Fraiz'
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| Step off the stage to shouts of «Kweli boomayyay!!»
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| See these four emcees came to get down
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| Rearrange the rap game, change ya whole sound
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| Nigga you, got ta, understand the plot ta
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| Movin' and groovin' and always improvin' alot-ta
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| I’ll outfox the average Porsche Boxster talk
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| Break the bank on some old Frank Sinatra (New York…)
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| Slash Chi-Town, slash Philly
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| Check the blast from Geneva, you can get slapped silly
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| Guerrilla Monsoon rap — all the shorties like «who dat?»
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| Got the whole crowd like «how ya do dat?»
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| Nigga you, get smacked 'til ya blue black
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| And ya crew, give me dap like true dat
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| We come through and all the shorties like «who dat?»
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| Got the whole crowd like «how ya do dat?»
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| Nigga you, get smacked 'til ya blue black
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| And ya crew, give me dap like true dat
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| Okay… my sound drenches, each of the five senses
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| And hold the shock value of electrified fences
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| It’s truth or consequences, ride wit us or against us
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| Is you a dedicated soldier, or you a princess, dog?
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| I’m in it to win it and not for the wealth
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| Got a crib with a Grammy and a gat on the shelf
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| Nan nigga competition, gotta battle myself
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| And me and Kweli on a mission, gettin' Pharoahe for help
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| From natives walkin' the Trail of Tears to players sippin' Belvedere
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| We always comin' well prepared, and all my dogs' smellin' fear
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| Plus, even my niggas from the Bay, they say you hella scared
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| Truth or consequences, and all senses be well-aware
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| Your style — under-developed there, hell if I care
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| What hardship you claim to see, but I can tell by your stare
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| Nigga you fugazi, sayin' ya crew blazin'
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| Like sayin' Miss Cleo is a true Jamaican, we makin'
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| Guerrilla Monsoon rap, smell the fumes, get in tune wit it
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| When I attack your city, y’all gon' think Dr. Doom did it
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| Spit it like white trash in seed-spittin' contests
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| With a vendetta that sent a betta letter bomb to Congress
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| I’m pissed — cumulus clouds of ominous
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| Words of the Thor, the rawness that’ll restore ya calmness
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| Unless, you wanna be leg and armless
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| That’s parapaleg' for those who believe in bomb threats
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| Guerrilla Monsoon rap — all the shorties like «who dat?»
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| Got the whole crowd like «how ya do dat?»
|
| Nigga you, get smacked 'til ya blue black
|
| And ya crew, give me dap like true dat
|
| We come through and all the shorties like «who dat?»
|
| Got the whole crowd like «how ya do dat?»
|
| Nigga you, get smacked 'til ya blue black
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| And ya crew, give me dap like true dat |