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Verse 1: |
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I got this coffee pot of white soap |
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Stuck my hanger down the center |
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When i entered i spent it cause it was like **** |
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But on the real-a he was jackin' me for scratch |
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Cause out of 36 ounces this mother******* brought me 20 back |
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I'm slanging 20 sacs cause i done lost 16 |
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And these goddamn streets aint going to bring me back |
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Now could it be the southside big baller |
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Bolo rock slanger stones done got slaughtered-damn |
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I'm going up on my whole thangs |
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And stepped on don't go runnin my clique cause it's a old game |
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And all i ever wanted was some hundred stacks |
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I went from slangin' o-z's to movin' hundred sacks |
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Gotta make my money back |
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Cause i done came too far up in these goddamn streets |
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To get my money snatched |
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I'm so for real about this mother****** skrill |
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That any obstacle obscuring my paper is gettin' killed |
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For real |
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Chorus: |
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(scratching and mixing) |
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All i have is this small skrilla |
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Verse 2: |
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I know this ******* run this game of life |
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So mother****** sheist that at night he got to sleep with lights |
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Cause he done come across with ************t so shade |
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That mutha *******s comin with clips to locate him |
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Aint no waitin and once they spot him they gon' sure face him |
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And once the got him they gon' sure waste him |
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This aint no mutha ****** joke ******* it aint worth it |
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And even if your mother gets in it you cant surface |
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It was all purpose |
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Just like that bull************t you was serving it was all purpose |
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We all chipped in ******* and we all hurting |
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I gots to grind just like in eighty-nine |
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When a *******s 25 cent pieces look just like baby dimes |
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I'm on the corner selling whole eights |
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I don't remember being this ****** paranoid since i sold weight |
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I went from 50 sacs to 50 packs |
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And all because this mother******* got jipped he wants to jip me back |
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But when i find him i'm gon finalize him |
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Just to let a ******* know i'm for real and down to die for mine |
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And i'm for real about this mutha ****** skrill |
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That any obstacle obscuring my paper is gettin killed |
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For real |
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Chorus |
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Verse 3: |
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Game made to be swift since eighty-six when i started |
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Seems like *******s with hustle got outsmarted |
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Cause now they wanna ************yze they homies for scratch |
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Catch them when they sleeping come down and up scrap |
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And even though i plotted hittin' *******s for ends |
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I never took out straps and shot gats at friends |
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It was all about being for real where i was from |
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Where very few *******s came real but i was one |
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I dedicate this to my homies stuck in battle |
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Living life being caught up in this mutha ******' gamble |
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The game made to be changed but the *******s still started |
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******* seems to be blamed for the *******s gettin slaughtered |
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How many times you had your homie shot |
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By the same mutha ******* whose game came from your homies block |
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*******s get caught up in the paper chase |
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And lose respect for the game |
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That was honored before the cake was made |
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Chorus |