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Artist: Buddha Monk & Da Manchuz f/ Dee, Q-Plex
Album:  Zu-Chronicles, Vol. 4: Manchuz Dynasty
Song:   The Get Down
Typed by: Cno Evil

[Intro: Dee]
These fake ass niggas better recognize
Ya'll don't know about the squad
Yo, yo, yo

Ya'll niggas wanna get it poppin' off?
Son, I spit with the force like a 44 shot let off
Believe me, my automatic tongue don't jam, I never heard of this man
But I'm about to murder this man, a verbalist man
Equiped with metaphors, that spit that ill shit
You and your click couldn't deal with me, uh
My murder click, me, G, Kwan and Face
Never hesitate to make shit up like pool tape
You need a miracle fucking with this Imperial nigga
That's mad lyrical from the physical to the spiritual
Sixteen bars of hell, on Dateline
Once the track split, I react and rape the bassline

[Chorus: Q-Plex]
Yo, we spit one, clip one, hit one
You missed, son, send a kite to get done
As long as the clip run, we bound to make it stick, son
We done when the clip done, never run when the clip, done

Lay the smackdown on clowns, we can get down, however
You wanna do it, with guns, rhymes, beats
Yo, the stove taste better than your flow, pa
You sound like a bitch, your mic skills wear bras
Yeah, you lyrical, nigga, but that don't mean shit
I rock street, it's nothing to make a hit song
You know how I do, I gets it on and popping
I know how you do, rocking thong thong thongs
I write like a beast, King Kong, kid
Me and my niggas spit verses back and forth like ping pong
Ring the fucking alarm, it's fire in here
We evaporate all that bullshit you spit
Go back to the lab, meditate, dig in the crates
You need to sample some James Brown, and fuck with these sounds
You know how I do, it's G-Note$, the hottest nigga out
No doubt, it's nothing


[Babyface Fensta]
I keep it thorough, rep my borough to the fullest
You ain't the illest or the realest
You ain't a killa, you Inc a Murda
You think, your pen's explosive, you ain't ready for war
I give it to you Raw like WWF
You Stone Cold, like The Rock?
It doesn't matter, do you smell what's cooking?
Your ass is grass, you just a preliminary bout
I'm the main event, your figures ain't major
You a c-minor, you all sound like little Jigga's
Since the death of Biggie, everybody jiggy
Wake up, smell the coffee, you commit suicide
For silver and tails of gold
My niggas want platinum plaques, fuck that
I'mma sell out, I want all my products sold out

[Chorus 2X]