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Method Man + Ghostface Freestyle
by
Method Man
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Lyrics
Listen, what 6-foot-4 coming at your jaw It's me kid, coming from the 1-6-2 I got crew kid, straight from the smoked out lungs of the mad one Blow a crab to kingdom come 'cause it's real son Represent what town you're from And I kill rhymes quicker than a clock you'll time Word life god, f**k making fancy moves I need props forget about a Hill Street Blue This is my plot, n***a wanna test my stee I make sh*t hot, burn to a third degree And it don't stop, keep on to the break of dawn And I rip cords in half with the Wu-Tang style What up? Ha! You're blind 'cause you don't know math You'se a b*t*h-ass n***a from a light-weight class Caution, you're p*ssing me off and its forcin' me to have thoughts of extortion Yo, i'ma be here forever, max like the weather Thoughts designed and classified like genuine leather As I get down to the Brownsville You remain still as I shoot the gift at will With rough raps banging off of marvelous tracks Paragraphs slamming like a late night snack The rap thoroughbreds You could get with this rhyme specialist Yes I be possessed leaving threats like a terrorist Blood spiller, ex-convict, verbal assaulter Disguising as a psychiatrist whose name's Walter Now I like smuggling mics of all types Spotlights at the airport and catch a flight to another chamber Then I will strike like a stranger Bad guys shorten they lives and lose fingers
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