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Intro |
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(Verse 1: Guttamouf) |
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Yeah, haha, we a’int nothing buta psychotic mother ******s in here |
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I’m a equal opportunity cap buster |
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White, black, Spanish, it don’t matter |
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Sixteen make you cough up your gall bladder |
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Even if you a *************, it means no different |
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It doesn’t matter if you wear bullet resistant |
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I smack mother ******s and leave barrel imprints |
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I represent the mentally unstable |
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Who usually end up dead or in jail |
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While you get your coffin, I get lunch with Lucifer |
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Had breakfast with the grim reaper |
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Treat your body to a led diet |
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If you don’t shut the ************* up and be quiet |
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I’m God’s gift to your mother ******g photo |
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Spit on your photo, *************t on your promo |
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With me running around, get a bullet proof do-rag |
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Portable IV and a mother ******g *************t bag |
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(Chorus: Celph Titled) |
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Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty |
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No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery |
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We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off |
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Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
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Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty |
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No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery |
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We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off |
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Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
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(Verse 2: Majik Most) |
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Ay yo, I’m coming to your city and I’ll probably be |
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Rolling with a posse that will eat a homeless woman’s ************* |
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While playing Pavarotti they’ll be fi*************ng your body |
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Out of Lake Erie in Michigan |
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With a Michelin tire wrapped around your midsection |
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I’m stepping on your corpse with a quart of your blood |
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All over my corduroys |
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While I bring the noise and, strict nine and poisons |
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Yeah, the type of *************t I spit will leave you hollow in side |
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So mother ************* rap cats who can’t get live |
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I’m kicking hardcore lyrics till the age of 85 |
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Until I retire, I’m only getting nicer |
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I’ll slam your ******g face down on a deli slicer |
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You’re crazy shook, rocking a Kevlar vest |
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A bullet took your head off and left a little piece of your neck |
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I need respect, I’m taking *************t higher |
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Make you firearm backfire and light your arm on fire |
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You stupid ************* |
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(Chorus: Celph Titled) |
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Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty |
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No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery |
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We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off |
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Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
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Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty |
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No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery |
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We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off |
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Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
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(Verse 3: Celph Titled) |
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Watch how I run through your clique |
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And straight kill every homeboy |
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Y’all *************s softer than the Pill*************ury doughboy |
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******g *************, you eat ************* nuggets and love it |
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Watching a Richard Simmons tape |
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And jack off after you dub it |
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Celph Titled is known to leave heads severally bleeding |
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And keep crack heads on my block fiending |
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If your rhymes are poisonous, I’ll make you eat your words |
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My gun talk money, imagine all the heat you could earn |
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Record a joint with me featuring you getting beat the ************* up |
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In a sound booth with a busted mics in front of your ******g wife |
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Rocking prosthetic limbs, your crew copped the boot leg |
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Call the police, you all shook daddy, ************* we two feds |
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Ain’t another spic realer than me |
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I give a ************* about hip hop, I’m just in it for cheese |
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And if this music don’t work, I’ll just find another hustle |
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You probably hate me for saying that *************t so I say ************* you |
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I kick rhymes on mad records just cause I can |
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You wish to spit bars on vinyl, but you’ll never have fans |
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By the time you get a chance to have your first single out |
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My discography is countless with six figure amounts |
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The God Celph Titled, contested by no one |
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*************s want to bring it, you can catch me at a show, dun |
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************* that, son who, gun you, |
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Look what I done to, young crews that tried to come through |
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*************s owe me loot, they turn up like rafts and canoes |
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I’m laughing at dude for thinking he as raw as my crew |
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From the NY boroughs and alleys to Hill*************orough County |
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My name ring bells like free phone sex rallies |
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The Rubix Cuban, unsolvable |
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Shoot out the voice box of emcees and leave them inaudible |
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An entrepreneur, your crew rocking my line of body bags |
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In the Chrome Depot, we got shopping bags full of gats |
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(Chorus: Celph Titled) |
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Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty |
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No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery |
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We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off |
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Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
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Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty |
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No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery |
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We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off |
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Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce |