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You are watching: Who the fuck are you?Who are you?Who am I? I'm Fucking Lou. Who the fuck are you?Yeah, check it out, my man Cimer Amor on the boardsThis is your tour guide, Louis Logic, fasten your seat beltsI start beef on dark streets, cursing the transientsTake your pick of your latest whip, hearse or an ambulance'Cause I'm a scientist to the rescueWho wish to infect you with contaminants from a test tubeI pop up on the scene unexpectedlyAll up in your city like teen mother pregnancyFiends love my tendency to serve dope'Cause I mesh with rap like a pimp in feathered hats and a fur coatCurtains closed, I'm a cop like SerpicoWho'll lock you up in fresh wears and let you go in dirty clothesI'm naked, wear my words exposedDisturbing folks performing bourbon-soaked at suburban showsAlert the pope and you better call a doctorI'm going off my rocker when I chug a quart of vodkaAnd just before the cops come I'll face a hundred dudesLike, "I'm Louis Logic, who the fuck are you?"
(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)Yeah, Check, checkPlain and simple, ordinary Jack's ain't as nimblePlus you lack the sack if your main veins are thimbleI hang my head over the pane of windowsThrowing up like, L.A. gang signs or graf paint in scribblesBlowing up's a far stretch, with indie B-sidesI'm hard pressed for a free ride like car theftI'm a hard head, I gotta chill with Joe CamelAnd stick with the liqs like a hick in old flannelThe contradiction in terms, to y'all niggas spitting a verse?Is like me smiling while I flip you the birdI'm mister disturbed and doctor depressionI got an obsession for seeing police officers stressingAnd catching a deepthroating actressWho knows gymnasticsAnd sucks the lubricant off of prophylacticsThe facts is, I specialize in crushing brewsI'm Louis Logic nigga, who the fuck are you?
(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)Yo, yo, check it outI create new constructs of lewd conductSomething similar to "Luke on dust"The faint of heart want to puke on us, my cohorts are so sickYour sawed shorts, sleeping and your futon rustWe throw bricks 'cause we building, not a lack of skillFake cats make a killing in the actor's guildI got a glass to fill with beer, sipping while I'm still in gearWhipping a black Cadillac SevilleNiggas asking, "Is this cat for real?"Shit, I'm swallowing some Advil pills with a flask that's filledAs a meal, I'm a shoe-in, when it comes to spewing confusionOver-achiever, working on improving my boozingIf you think that that's funny, a drug dealerTried to buy my single DAT from me with some crack moneySonny, my style is new plus improved'Cause I'm Louis Logic, who the fuck are you?
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(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)(Who the fuck are you?)