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​Duel Of The Iron Mic

This song is by Masta Killa.

Pump your fist like this
Pump your fist like this
Just pump your fist like this
Pump your fist like this

Picture bloodbaths, elevator
Murderous rhymes tight from genuine craft
Check the print, it's where veterans spark the
Slow movin' motherfuckers waitin' for the editin'

The liquid soluble that made up the
A gaseous element that burned down your ministry
Herbal vapors and biblical papers
Smokin' Exodus, every square yard is plush

Fuck the screw-faced photo sessions, facial expressions, reasons
Try to keep a shark nigga guessin'
Give crazy shouts, son, here's the outcome
Cut across the semi-gloss rhymes you floss

Shit is outdated, just like neck loads of Sterling's
Suede-fronts, bell-bottoms and tri-colored Shearling's
I ain't particular, I bang like vehicular homicides
July 4th in Bed-Stuy

Money don't grow on trees and there's thievin' MC's
Who cut-throat to rake leaves, they can't breathe
Blood splash, rushin' fast like runnin' rivers
I be that whiskey in your liver

Duel of the Iron Mic
It's the fifty-two fatal strikes

This is not a eighty-five affair, made clear
When the Gods get on to perform, storms brew up
Wu's up, causin' the crowd to self-destruct
Killer bees are stingin' some while I reveal

Science that's heavily guarded by the culprit
Bombin' your barracks with aerodynamic
Swordplay, poison darts by the doorway
Minds that's laced with explosive doses

Damagin' lyrical launcher
Lunge at the youthful offender then injure any contender
Testin' the murderous Master lead to disaster
Dynamite thoughts explode through the barrier

Rips the retina, who can withstand the
Astonishing, punishing stings to the sternum?
Shocked in the hip-hop livestock
Seekin' for a serum to cure 'em

Adults kill for drugs, the young bucks bust
Duckin' handcuffs, throats get cut when dough rush
Out of town foes look shook but still pose
We move like real pros through the streets we stroll

Bullet holes lace the windows in 1-6-Oh
So control the avenues, that's the dream that's sold
Building lobbies are graveyards for small-timers
Bitches caught in airports, keys in their vaginas

No peace, yo, the police mad corrupt
You get bagged up, dependin' if you're passin' the cut
Plus shorty's not a shorty no more, he's livin' heartless
Regardless of the charges, claims to be the hardest
Individual, critical thoughts, criminal minded
Blinded by illusion, findin' it confusin'

Duel of the iron mics
It's that fifty-two fatal strikes
Duel of the iron mics
It's that fifty-two fatal strikes

Written by:

Robert F Diggs; Gary Grice; Russell T Jones; Herbert Magidson; Allie Wrubel