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(feat. Cuts by DJ Plain Ol' Bill) |
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(Verse 1:) |
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When I was five years old I used to hear funk and soul |
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Being played out my pop's hi-fi stereo |
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Looking at the photos, buggin on the names |
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With the fold out covers and the crazy illustrations |
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I got older and bought my own records |
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By thirteen I had three crates collected, huh |
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And that's my pride, no time for white rides |
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Kept on the grind and I stayed inside |
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I was sort of a poser how I had my friends over |
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Cutting up till we wrecked that direct drive loader |
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Mom's turntable went through hell |
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A whole lot of wicky-wicky trynna teach myself |
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The records got stuffed cause the parties was rough |
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But I still showed up to try to rock some cuts, what |
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And I was young but the bigger kids reached out |
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Give me five minutes on decks to freak out |
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The type to get it right, maybe one night |
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I be rapping bout my life on the cordless mic |
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No matter how it look, always kept one foot |
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Between records and books, and the suckers got shook |
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Dreamed about it two decades straight |
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Way before Rhymesayers first wax got made |
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The music is my love and it is my business |
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My name is Big Slug, I'm on the road to the... |
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(Verse 2:) |
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I used to stand on the block selling four track tapes |
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Trynna make enough papes to buy more blanks |
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There was all kinds of hits, backpacks and drips |
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Sweatshirts running network and guess and cred |
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The word was spread with speed, the name grew like weeds |
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Wasn't long till we took the lead |
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Twin cities was little and the winter was bitter |
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Getting bigger and bigger, they started taking my picture |
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For the shit I spit, some rappers I knew quit |
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Got jobs and a family, they just couldn't handle it |
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Lice and rhyming, living like a roach |
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On the ground and broke, holding onto the Hulk |
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In a small town scene we stole like a thief |
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No time to sleep with politics and beef, huh |
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They all pussies, dicks and assholes |
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Collecting stripes from little freestyle battles |
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Many mics we gripped, any stage we'd rip |
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Even with no chips we'd take them road trips |
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Loyal members of the crew had my back to death |
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G-Pool, Moonsign, myself and Stress |
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All we had was rhymes, coming offa the mind |
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For the first time in my life everything felt fine |
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The turntables turn while the DJ's mix it |
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I didn't know I was on the road to the... |
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(Verse 3:) |
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The pop that rocks for props, he eventually stops |
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And maybe hops on some desktop guest spots |
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The gangster's muscle, are up in the puzzle |
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But if their raps are wack they go back to the hustle |
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I was the one on the opposite side of smoking a gun |
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Taught me how to rhyme and how to run |
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Make or break it, the hater's can't say shit |
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Stayed awake late night in Ant's basement |
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Take notes, spray painted the paved road |
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The tapes sold, got lucky with scapegoat, huh |
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That means work, in other words sewer van |
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Peace to J-Berg, the man with the core plan |
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Seeds get planted, hands get handshakes |
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Damn straight, gonna keep goin till the man breaks |
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And MC's who wanna make ends meet out on my route |
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But never ever keep friendly |
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Stack the blocks, catch that fox |
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Rhymesayers locked on the Mid-West crops |
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Troopers, soldiers, shoulder to shoulder |
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Sold out the shows and give the groupies to my chauffer |
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New tour dates, take the money, put out more tapes |
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And call it foreplay, ready for the war games |
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Sew it up and then FUCK with the snitches |
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Atmosphere on the road to the riches... bitches! |
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(Scratches:) |
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(Kool G Rap:) "The money it counts steep" |