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lyrics

verse 1
ok, red sox all black fitted cap sitting
sideways on the mane of the lion
pride of the herd with the word play designing
sharp incisors shred scores i collide with
arrive with no flash or pageantry, all you have is me
platting rap and beat naturally, not that yaki weave
crash the feast without a pass or key
proceed to take it to the max like Zach and Screech
aye this is me Pacman, look at me in my
brash stance, got mad plans
to feel the globe in these black hands
but doing some soft shoe tap dance to grab fans yo fat chance
i'm bring truth to the light like a cat scan
hurling aluminum trash cans, broken glass everywhere
crash land falling hard like
Shaq's slam on Ahmad clap hands all applaud

chorus
arms folded, pose is frozen, just like
the flow is, i’m focused and it
ain’t hard to say so, all the way bold
off my lay low, and on my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
like I’m supposed to be, let’s get it

verse 2
out for my proper due, got a lot to prove
so i hop upon a groove, get it poppin' like i'm Shabba Doo
when in the booth, set the mood committing seppuku
chilling death, spilling intestines, pen the weapon used
it’s gruesome, this is what i do son
kick up dust terrible shoe scuffs, doin' too much
just me, no features or crew cuts
beats get bruised up, steadily 1-2 punched
One Man Gang of African royalness
talk Slick, my mouth rinse bottled at oil rigs
loyalist, considered unhip by what is trendy
take it Back to School sticking the Triple Lindy
stir emotions with no frill approaches, but know
this, when my boat shows I’m a be flowing in
hand sewn italian silk clothing, coats giving
Morris Day feels and the boots, smokin’

chorus

verse 3
rappity raps mixed with blackity black spit
Al McAfee bad hip, captioned in
bars of wrestling with God on spiritual matters
bigger fishes to batter than lyric deficient rappers
rhythm slave my soul covered with welts
my records make sense to no one but myself
well, maybe my brothers and a handful of others
but they sound butter that's word to the mother
with the Johnny Gill intro, step through the ropes
in chocolate Timbo's with Dr. Scholl's insoles
when final bell's rung title belt becomes
a diamond encrusted cummerbund, and i'm a stunt
with whole name engraved on the gold plate
Game Don't Wait so there ain't no way
i'm a stay here serving your Winky Dinky hoe cakes
got my own dreams to go chase, holla

chorus
arms folded, pose is frozen, just like
the flow is, i’m focused and it
ain’t hard to say so, all the way bold
off my lay low, and on my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
'til they know me, i'm on my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
my j-o-b, my j-o-b
like I’m supposed to be, let’s get it...

credits

from the purge. an original score, released March 3, 2014
C. Rushing/J. Brown

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