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Uh huh, ba-by, ba-by, uh, it's goin' down |
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This is that mutha****in' nigga (off the sound) |
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Yeah, uh, bulletproof mutha****in' gooses outdoors |
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For all the streets, all the dusts in the streets |
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(Let me get a sip of that, let me get a sip of that) |
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Rusty projects and all that, the radiators is bulletproof |
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Yo, yo, come on, ah yo yo |
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[Ghostface Killah] |
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What up cousin, this is most high wizardry |
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Got's to watch niggaz, so I stay on my grizzly (uh) |
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These young boys comin' at me (yeah) |
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Lookin' at these faggots, like yeah, you get amped off of Pepsi |
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Damn, what kind of cards you delt |
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Does your elevator go up? (Nope) You ain't rap too tight |
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Right, you can tell me, G-H to O-S-T |
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Two hundred Bees'll get you killed by coke head Skeet |
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This is murder, you can get it, if my fam don't eat |
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And, we slam niggaz, like we Lil' Malik |
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We want that Powerball money, Easter bunnies, Wool-light money |
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Hey dunny, we rock a half of mill and look bummy |
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And bounce to the projects, pop Becks, cop Tec's |
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Top wrecks, execs got next, what the heck |
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I'm fed, you'se dead, that's said, no more wet |
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The cameras is rollin', bitch, quiet on the set |
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[Chorus: Ghostface Killah] |
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You can never front on, jump or you get lumped on |
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Burners in your face, don't you get nervous on me |
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We got so many gats, and them big Mac's |
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Somebody get the boy, I get the wildin' on black |
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Tell 'em, we will, we will, rock you, pop you |
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We will, we still, got you, got you |
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[Trife Da God] |
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Aiyo aiyo, it ain't a game (nah) |
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This kid is serious about his change (uh-huh) |
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Ya'll a bunch of wacko jacko's, amped off your names |
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Call me Sugar Ray, the way I dance on you lames |
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My right hand'll sting you and ding you, leave stamps on your brain |
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I got, out of state of niggaz that'll kill for beers |
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Cuz you, easy to pop like balloons filled with air |
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I dare ya'll faggot asses, punch niggaz with glasses |
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Back in my third grade classes, squeezin' asses |
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My niggaz is never over, understand |
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I'm a 2Pac fan, this is the realest shit I ever wrote |
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Butter soft, lead the coke, matchin' my kicks |
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So make sure, you get my sneakers when you snappin' that flick |
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And I advise you, to carry that Bible for survival |
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Surprise you, return like Jesus, without the costume |
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Come on young'n, you dumbin' |
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I've been doin' this shit since King Culling, cookin' grams in the oven |
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[Chorus x2] |