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(Beretta 9) |
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This is for all y'all wanna be |
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Millitant, Camoflauge (Y'all niggas ain't raw) |
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Word up, we 'bout to show you how it's done (Word up man) |
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How to rock the boots (Like this) |
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The camoflauge (Great damn nigga White) |
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The guns (The big ones that go..) |
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(Beretta 9) |
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Yo, watch for the shrapnel admiral |
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Didn't know the kid was tactful |
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My missles whistle at you spactual, subtract you |
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Surrender all, we got you |
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Blitzkrieg, fahtis bleed, it's natural |
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The Army, take out your front line calmly - you like that |
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Tell the Cap' the kids back the Millitant |
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My regiment be five percent put Steelo in |
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Killin these tracks, Beretta on attack |
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This one for my die-hard niggas, watch yo' back |
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Or wind up in the graveyard, in Allah tint |
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Ask the fans, it's the Gods again |
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And if we got to, then we kill again |
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"Louie under, we're making another push" |
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"Get your people together.. lieutenant?" |
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"I got nothin left" |
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"Dig a little deeper" |
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(Superb) |
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Yo.. Up all night writin darts |
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Sniffin the pure, Christmas Eve '99 reminiscin and shit |
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(Bout) who got hit, (Bout) who got bitch |
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(Bout) who bitches that is, who got kids and |
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Who sell crack, who a rapper now |
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Who money-washin, who was P.O. |
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Try to get him lockied up but his bitch is C.O. |
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And she gon' tell the captain, he gon' buy him a boat |
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The cap' gon' tell the judge, he gon' buy him a goat (And) |
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The judge gon' tell the D.A., he gon' buy him some coke |
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The D.A. gon' tell his lawyer that his client can go |
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And, all y'all niggas mad I got the iron from Ghost |
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And, Chef still cookin what you tryin to get roast |
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Bobby'll beat that ass, Meth do a show in ya coats |
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And Cappadonna, the Masta will Kill ya |
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You fuckin with a true master, fuckin with power |
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You fuckin with the Wu bastards, fuckin with ours |
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We the most livest, most largest, squadrant |
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Sergeants in Africa, thugs from America |
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Live from New York, straight from Florida City |
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All shitty, screamin "Play more Biggie" |
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Hood like you blowin, per blow more quickly |
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Still poppin pain that cause four-fifty |
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I ain't know they was young, I just like short bitches |
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(Islord) |
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Yo, you fucked up when you crossed my line |
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I got the nine, pointed at ya back spine |
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So feel the heat, as I let the lead tear your meat |
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Cuz I represent the real niggas from the streets |
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I'm comin trough blackdown, with the fat tre' pound |
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Strapped, cocked back |
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While my right-hand man plays a role in the back, |
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with the mack - Subject to murderous art, |
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as I finesse it and also compose the track like Mozart |
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This nine'll script, niggas get finked up |
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In this rap game, it's madly insane |
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So don't go against the grain, or get your life tooken |
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With ya head chopped off, placed in a plastic bag, |
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its Central booking, forever kings |
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(9th Prince) |
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Aiyyo I spit verses that'll bury you beneath the surface |
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A murder this like voodoo curses |
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9th Prince forever nervous, analog niggas is short-circuit |
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Killa be killas the purpose |
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Guns in holsters what the earth is, musical apocalypse |
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Run up on the label, hold the A and R for a hostage |
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Limps from four-footers who's with it, go 'head spit it |
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The weed and dust makes me kill shit, kill shit... |
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"The way I see it, we've got two choices" |
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"We can settle for being slaughtered in the push tomorrow" |
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"Or we can take those tanks out tonight.." |
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"If we do it, it's just us" |
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"We'll slip past the lines unchecked" |
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"Just another sorry-ass patrol" |
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"Lemme get this straight" |
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"Yesterdauy your point was Section 8" |
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"No" |
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"You wanna lead some renegade force against their tanks" |