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featuring Ras Kass
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[Yogi] Yeah...HA...Cru...
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[Mighty Ha] Mic checka da one the mic check three
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[Yogi] Cru in you baby...
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[Mighty Ha] Mic checka da one the mic check three...
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[Yogi]
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Mix it up with the big Y.O.
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Comin' from the Laf Isle with fat funk flow
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So yo how you feelin'? Tell me how you feelin'
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Mad drug dealin' mad caps peelin'
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I do my thing drink a Budweiser
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And I seen more *bush/Busch* than Dan Anheiser
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Twist the caps of you fake John Gottis
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Watch the pump shottie, make you look like Kwame
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Cru's about to drop the dirty understand the cipher
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Got nothin' to lose so I'm-a do like a lifer
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Niggaz couldn't *catch up/ketchup* with the mustard, disgusted
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Drop the shit that gotcha brains dusted, bust it
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This is how it flow in the Bronx Zoo ya'll
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Beef up a step and style with a fall
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Nothin' but the rough, understood?
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Got me in double extra large bulletproof wit' the hood
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Sittin' at the bar sippin' Becks
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Plus I got the "two turntables and a microphooooone" on deck
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So who's next? Rugged Ras
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Flossin' ice, and drop that soul on dat ass
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The IBF got my rhymes ranked cuz they hittin'
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Plus I'm all around like Scott Pippen
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Here it is, east west, I mean China to Mexico
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If you love the way it's goin' down let me know
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Fuck it, Harlem knows the ledge
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All my Bronx niggaz know the wedge, full-fledged
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Uptown! Plus we got the Cali love
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Y.O.G., truly yours the Breakfast Club
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[Ras Kass]
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Yo punk...
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I was hot as 97 in '73
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D.O.B. my pedigree multiple felonies see
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You spit phlegm I spit fumes
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Across the ruins of kiosks hoverin' sand dunes
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A miniature man-nume, it's National Lampoon's Alien Vacation
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I'm abductin' muthafuckin' rappers to my inner space station
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(What?) For sheezy,
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When Ras Kass get to swervin' off 'gnac, believe me
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I hit below the belt
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Bustin' niggaz balls like Riddick Bowe versus Gulotta
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Hell yeah I'm a rida
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Ain't nuttin' sweetie, cancer causin' like saccahrin
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Action, intoxicated chinky-eyed black men
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An' nowadays fools forget what they actually named
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Besides a loyal cadets and priceless briquettes
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Basically, I don't give a shit how rich ya get
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I'll have you in the car talkin' to yourself
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Like Alanis Morisette with turets
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(Oh wee..that's right...) I like sisters with vaginas so...
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(Can we get freaky toniiiiight...)
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Donald Trump wouldn't let you shine his shoes my man
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If you pissed off you dyin' with your dick in your hand
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Plus when shit hits the fan, I mean when Ras reach the crowd
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And verse to verse, switch my aura then rotate Earth
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And fuck that servin' emcees and livin' bummy
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I'm on some show me the money and still educate the dummies
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CHORUS
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It's all about me for you and you for me
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And playa if ya do for two we do for three
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You think it's 'bout the cash, the cars and jew-el-ry
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We livin' in the age of the ebonic plague (2x)
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[Chadio]
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You see the words is meshin' through this lyrical aggression
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Punks pop shit we Joe Pesc'em no question
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Cru session, no time for second guessin'
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Frontin' or fessin', we full court pressin'
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Testin', any in our way learn a lesson
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Forever in my Stetson, chrome plated Wesson
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We ain't got no time for excuses and reasons
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Bringin' nuttin' but butta in all four seasons
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Wanna blow my nose when I'm sneezin', wit' hundred dollar bills
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Foes I'm squeezin', breezin'
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Through your nearest town wit' the frown expression
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Those Bronx streets left a lastin' impression
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Now think about this, imagine Cru rhymers
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Like this world with no clock bein' timeless
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Pure dope when it come to the oratorical
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Stay on the low wit' a dime that's adorable
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Got the rap shit covered like long johns
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Big brother Ant taught me how to bear arms
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L.A. to D.C. I gets my P.C.
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Keeps me a fifth of B.C.
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And we gon' drink to your pass peeps that flashed heat
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Never no more, when I pull I blast he
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Think you could deal? You crazier than Bjork
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Belong up on Fantasy Isle with Mr. Rourke
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The Ebonic Plague
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CRU |