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(Lloyd Banks) |
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Man what the **** are you lookin for? |
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Can't a young nigga make money any more |
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Blow a couple grand in the NBA Store |
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Rock twenty-four thousand on the NBA floor |
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Niggaz be on stage bendin over on tour |
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Leave anti-social with a case of lochjaw |
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Just cause shorty look good, don't mean that you should go |
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puttin ice on the bitch like she won the Superbowl |
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Even the chips are low, for all these so-called old heads |
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Just ain't the same niggaz I used to know |
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I got a Houston ho - nah she ain't the sharpest knife |
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in the drawer but she a damn good booster though |
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See I could **** a supermodel with my {?} works |
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Send her home with a smile and a couple kids on her shirt |
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I got a year into the game |
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A 141 rocks layin on my chain, geah! |
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(Chorus: Lloyd Banks) |
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Just another day, chillin in the hood |
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Just another day around the way |
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I'm tipsy off the Hennessy |
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We ridin round with the H-K, nigga we don't play |
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Just another day, chillin in the hood |
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Just another day around the way |
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We smoke a quarter pound a day |
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G-Unit we here to stay, nigga we don't play |
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(Lloyd Banks) |
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Nevermind the lames in my era, they all want me dead |
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And I know, it's all over the way I see bread |
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Here I go, caught up in some he say/she said |
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'Til I go, put a slug in my enemy's head |
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The Tahoe's, bulletproof so you can't get through |
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Then follow, your ass and whoever ran with you |
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And you about as assed-out as two jammed pistols |
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Bleedin around a bunch of niggaz who can't fix you |
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So bring yours, cause you know I got mine with me kid |
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The 8'll make you lose weight like Missy did |
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The O.G.'s tryin to hide they phony smilin |
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Reputation always arise in Coney Island |
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I'm at your local newsstand jerk |
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While the only XXL you been in as a shirt |
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And, speakin of shirts, get a new white T |
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God damn it feels good to be me - nigga! |
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(Chorus) |
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(Lloyd Banks) |
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Now I'm goin, shoppin with a plastic card now |
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I'm growin, knockin international broads down |
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They know him, they're not gonna even pat the star down |
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I'm holdin, a glock so don't even act that hard now |
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You might bust your gun but your gat's in the car clown |
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So break your lil' weed up and crack your cigars down |
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Cause I ain't tryin to start my visits, with the ****in judge |
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givin niggaz life like it's parkin tickets |
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Now I get to go to bed with a model |
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And the crib is bout as big as it is on the Belvedere bottle |
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I got all kind of ex' I could ram in they faces |
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Red and blue pills like the man in The Matrix |
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You might have spent some paper on your lil' charm but |
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My piece is bout as heavy as Lil' Jon cup |
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But, it's never tucked, nigga I don't give a **** |
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I'll get bucked 'fore I give somethin up, yup! |
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(Chorus) |
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(ad libs) |