Hands Lyrics

I fast like Mahatma Ghandi/ No fast like Cassius, Muhammad Ali/ The champ dancing around these zombies/ the crowd screams, this man is wobbly/ knock out, that’s all she/ not gonna lose, a confident dude when I’m in the booth/ move like Dominick Cruz/ in the octagon loose/ no bobbin’ and weavin’/ crazed eccentric, walk to the octagon tweakin’/ to mobb deep like Jason mayhem did it/ top fight, drop guys, aim to finish/ put on size like Popeye ate a buffet of spinach/ then hop five.. weight divisions/ monopolize then say wait a minute/ got to get a compromised gate percentage/ Get the dollar sign tailor fitted/ call it a confident sweater, provocative measure to pop at a legend with no boxing record/ knocked in the 10th but fill my pockets with cheddar like Connor McGregor/ stock options like Pacquiao, Oscar, and Pauli Malinagi set up/ but if I do get ahead and get a big head/ gotta kick it like Holly did Ronda Rousey/ as non Hodgkin’s is boxing rocky/ I’m the last of a dying breed/ I’m Adonis Creed/ dodge blows then hit Drago with combos for Apollo/ unstoppable like Jon Jones hopped up on coke/ don’t let usada know/ not a dope, go in like Stockton’s own/ chronic smoke, Diaz Connor in Nevada, I got the choke/ go get Joe Rogan for the slow motion/ get my opponent some Motrin, I got no time, Vulcan/ Ozdemeer/ going for gold this year/ biggest fight of my whole career/ grab a handful of Brazil nuts then crack a kick to ya maxilla/ like I’ve been practicin’ with Anderson Silva/ jabbin’ ta kill ya/ the champ landin’ to spill guts/ the colliseum seats fill up/ for the chilla, the thrilla in Manilla/ hit a naysayer with a melee of haymakers/ then they wake up 8 days later/ unpaid vaycay hater/ go jump face first into a freight train of straight razors/ got a tape worm/ a fuck around but let’s let some hunger mound/ a younger, a hundred pounds/ buggin’, jumpin’ up and down/ bunpin’ run this town/ and a bunch of underground sick rappers/ it factor, ready to punch a clown/ drum up a whiplash on the come up now/ hit back like Buster Douglas/ doubt but the punches upset the crowd/ above expectations, how?/ Son is the best when underestimated/ like your months credit statement/ but fuck competitive angst/ I haven’t been afraid since the 7th grade/ wrestling days, tasting second place/ that Eminem record played, fed up/ left the race, like a young J sped up the pace/ the mental state of a renegade before I put the pen to the page/


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