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The Dope

The trendy,
The fresh,
The ill.
Niggas truly believe the shit they spill,
Is colder than liquid nitrogen.
That everyone else’s style is languid,
And it languishes in comparison,
Cats believe their artillery is nothing short of a garrison,
They’re all heroes; Harrison,
That the very sun,
Shines down its rays because of their talent,
The Dope,
The Dope,
Cold as can be.
The ladies love em, the stories indeed,
Cause one to think if these things actually can be,
Could women love he,
As much as this brother claims to see,
And brother is you truly can sing,
Then make love to that thing,
88 keys of swagged out cool,
Or a closet full of fits fresh for school,
Every word uttered seems to redact the fool,
Putting them in a place to react like wool,
Rubbed up against glass,
The stylish electrify,
The screen of the computer as the testify,
Rectify all the crap in the world they objectify,
Clean.

Legends in their own minds,
Vulnerable to reality’s land mines,
Hope the brought enough cash to hand fines,
Fees and green over to hands inclined,
To prove their metal to the true existence of man.

FKJR

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