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Aw, yeahRight about now it's time to get busy |
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Huh, straight out the box, nonstop |
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Kurupt the |
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Kingpin, Xzibit, |
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Crooked IWait a minute, um |
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This is the art of, manslaughter |
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When I'm rockin', |
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I'm more shockin' |
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Than droppin' a boom box in bath water |
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You entered the wrong scuffle |
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You catchin' a chrome buckle |
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I uppercut niggas hard enough |
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To break my own knuckles |
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Deliver the sick verbals |
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My shotty spit around |
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Before you hit the ground |
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Your body spin around, in six circles |
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Diminishin' infamous menaces |
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I'm waitin' to get dicked, if not |
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I'm a start finishin' innocents, lyrics |
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I'm breezin' the region |
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Freezin' G's in your legion |
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Freakin' ancient techniques |
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When I'm speakin' phoenician |
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It's all about |
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CrookedThese bitches shout |
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CrookedI'll make you say the |
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West Coast |
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Ain't shit without |
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CrookedI own a vicious label, niggas'll get disabled |
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When I'm spittin' rhymes written on project kitchen tables |
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I load this 4-5 and let slugs dive at ya |
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Now that's for |
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Crooked I, the scrap happy, mic snatcha |
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Mother****ers can you dig that, huh? |
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Can you **** with this? |
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Let's get |
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Kurupt the |
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Kingpin to **** y'all niggas up |
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Y'all don't wanna see none of this |
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West Coast |
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MC shitYeah, how you like me now mother****er? |
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Terror starts, in the midst of your heart, starts |
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The storm, my vocals float like arts |
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In the mystic state of mind, when |
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I create a rhyme |
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My microphone massacres every year the same time |
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With audio amputations, vocal thoughts of a loud talker |
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Up against the microphone night stalker |
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With a tendency of bashing |
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MCs, like ten of me |
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As you can see |
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I continue mashin' |
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MCsCaboom, the room gets cleared as my views get clearer |
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Extra-terrestrial microphone terror |
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In effect, get infected |
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Tell me, "What the **** you expected?" |
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These venemous injections |
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I leave whole sections and sections full of injections |
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From these poisenous melodies and selections |
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I select the methods of slow anguish |
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I mangle shit with my language |
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Tell me, have you ever seen one elope |
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With the microphone |
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In a scandal like abilities to make |
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MCs explode |
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Baboom, alone in my own zone |
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So don't compare me to none |
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Not one's nearly severe, 'cuz |
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I severely |
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Impair MCs near me, oppose and fear me |
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I got plots and theories |
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Sincerely, |
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I could have the spot locked |
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Niggas get stoned for touching microphones |
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With no knowledge on how to rock |
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Yeah, back in effect, it don't stop |
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Turn your speakers up, |
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DJ Battlecat on the table |
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We ****in' it up like this and like that, yeah |
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Got my homeboy |
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Xzibit in the motherfuccin' house, |
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Alkaholiks |
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When I was enlisted |
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I came to the table double fisted |
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Sadistic, heavy artillery, for all my enemies |
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Bust shots up in the sky screamin' obscenities |
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Make niggas sport cackies and chucks from here to |
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ItalyIt'll be, a cold day in hell when you see |
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Xzibit fail |
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Act like a bitch on bail, tuck tail, and run |
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See we do it how it can't be done |
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I'm the rough cut, plus how the west was won |
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Or direct descendant of the gatling gun |
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Don't test me, son, you **** around and catch you one |
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That ain't a threat, that's a promise |
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I can definitely keep |
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You can't compete wit' 25 niggas wit' heat in the street |
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Ready to repeat, round after after round at you |
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All hell break lose when the whole pound come through |
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I found that you and yours, can never **** wit' mine |
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I own shit but gimme some more like |
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Busta Rhymes' |
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Cross the line, now you gotta pay the piper |
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I'm The Alkaholik sniper, that be keepin' the crowds hyper |
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It's ashes to ashes and dust to dust |
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Can't stop till me and my niggas is platinum plus |
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My Dogg Kurupt |
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Yeah, no shit |
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Yeah, y'all can't **** wit' that |
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That's what |
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I'm talkin' about |
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West coast, we been doin' this shit for years |
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Aint nothin' happenin' wit' that |
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Battlecat, right |
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Whatcha say? |
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Mother****as that be hangin' in the battle |
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That's what |
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I'm talkin' about |
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Daz Dillinger |
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Break it down, break it down |
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Mother****as can't fade this shit |