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The Landmine Lieutenant, in the muthafuckin' house |
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We 'bout to do it like this... |
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[Verse One] |
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I hold the record for the most ignorant rhymes said |
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That'll knock that cowboy hat off of Imus' head |
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Catch me on the Food Network and watch me handle beef |
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2 letters: I'm O.T., 2 words: I'm gettin' money |
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2 verses: I'm gettin' twenty |
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And that's thousands |
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Hoo-ridin' through L.A. in a Bronco with Al Cowlings |
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The head honcho, I'm out browsin' |
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And I ain't lookin' for bulletproof Hummers, just for bullets that shoot Hummers |
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And Beamers with moonroofs for the summer |
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For easy access to jump out poppin' and turn ya brains to au grautin |
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Rotten, as a young kid I never was the dude to call |
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Too busy turnin' G.I. Joes into voodoo dolls |
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Put my cigarette out on ya nose |
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Get blood on my suit? I got a thousand of those |
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Can't come close, my discography's the one with the most |
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Cause I appear on more tracks than Dale Earnhardt's ghost |
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If you approach, I'll murder though |
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My gun flip more shells than the Ninja Turtle show |
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This is my movie in 3-D, slice ya neck with a Fugees CD |
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And stick Lauryn Hill with the coroner's bill |
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[Sample-Looped Chorus] [x4] |
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"Ha, ha-ha-ha, and we do like this, and we do it like this, and we do it like..." |
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[Verse Two] |
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Muthafuckin' Celph Titled is back (yeah!) you can't the diminish fact |
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I pull the panties off of feminine acts |
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And with Sinista on the scratch (maaaan) |
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You know I'm rippin' this wax cause Buckwild came with the pimpinest track |
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And with style and grace, I'll punch a guy in his face |
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("Wipe out, remove, erase and annihilate") |
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Yeah, that's how I move when I swing |
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And like Ben Grimm's wife, you ain't doin' a Thing |
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I done been ripped mics from Australia to Queens |
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Smacked wack labels up for bogus shit they released |
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And when Moses split the seas |
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I jumped the gap on water skis (Did you look back?) Nah, nothin' more to see |
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Cause on my Island, there's no sign of Def Jam |
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Won't sign with left hand, right hand, Aight? SCRAM! |
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I shine bright next to mic stands |
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Might just blind ya eye sight and give ya hype man a slight tan |
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[Sample-Looped Chorus] [x4] "Ha, ha-ha-ha, and we do like this, and we do it like this, and we do it like..." |
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[Verse Three] |
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Rough enough when I swing with a uppercut |
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Yellin' at rappers like a megaphone with the button stuck |
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Kerosene, pour quarts out, in front of the court house |
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Light a match and in a calm manner I walk out |
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In Atlanta I bring the Hawks out |
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These are Doberman jaws, I looked over and saw you had a small snout |
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Do I catch wreck? Hell yeah |
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I'm the Fresh Prince of Hell's Lair, y'all better get some healthcare |
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Fuckin' with Celph's rare, not too many wanna do it |
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But the ones that did got they record label ruined |
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Made you switch angles, somethin' ain't lookin' right |
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Underground rappers turned to Criss Angel lookalikes? |
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That's what a faggot's lookin' like, so fuck anybody that knows ya |
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You a coward and a poser |
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I'm about flows that roast ya |
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Your shit's dead, it's leftover french bread from Stouffers burnt in my toaster |
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Certainly it's over, y'all gotta start with a new scheme |
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Your goofball Ron Burgundy news team |
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Ain't bringin' the forecast |
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My hurricane cyclone attack leave you with your bones cracked and four casts |
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[Sample-Looped Chorus] [x4] |
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"Ha, ha-ha-ha, and we do like this, and we do it like this, and we do it like..." |
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[Scratch + Sample Outro] |
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"Like this!" |
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"A one-two, a checka one-two" |