Slam Dunk Contest lyrics

Tha God Fahim & Your Old Droog

[These lyrics are intentionally left partial due to a DMCA takedown request. Please do not edit the lyrics to include the removed sections.]

[Verse 1: Your Old Droog]

[Verse 2: Tha God Fahim]
Uh, I bring the pains with no method
I'm like a funnel with no exit (Overflow)
I pass through tunnels in gold Lexus (Vroom!)
I hear the moneybags callin' like the Bat-Sign (Bat-Sign)
Spittin' fat rhymes, I throw a curve, you end up flatline (You end up flatline)
I need the Ms like Slim Shady
Super Bowl rings like Tom Brady
Stare at the ice, it turn you to crybaby
These stones get to flarin' up your retina
Come correct-a, I split you to a trifecta
Checka, preparing for my pilgrimage to Mecca
Record well-seasoned just likе a dash of salt and pepper
Catch up, you must have donе slipped and fell on your head (You fell on your head)
Before you ever test the God, you better off being dead
I whip a miracle up, I'm a miracle
They hear my raps and start connecting with the spiritual
Lace me up, I sent the wire number, cake me up
I let bank notifications alarmin' wake me up
Yikes

[Verse 3: Pharoahe Monche]
Oral sex with the district attorney, screw what she say
All American on the block, no USDA
The legendary, mack cheddar, stay breaded
Cut the carbs, do high reps, get shredded
I got grilled at home, so the toast, I kept admirin'
For the bread and the cheese, I would squeeze with the iron
Thirteen with a mason jar and some Jim Beam
So tell these children to chill, I'm still the illest workin' the scene
Scheme, hit the turnpike for that Philadelphia cream
The GOAT, something I never had a fear of
So halloumi's what I say whenever I stare in the mirror
Your records don't display any balls, neutered
I'm Luda with the looter if Atlanta got the Gouda
You maneuver with the shooters from a desktop
I'm from the barrel of salt and pepper jack, my rest spot
King of the desert, Mad Max in the motor home
With a sawed-off shottie, you know Queens get the provolone
You know Queens get the—
Yeah, Pharoahe, ah
You know Queens get the provolone

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