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(feat. Lounge Mode & Solomon Childs) |
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(Chorus: Cappadonna) |
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Pain is love, that's what this nigga told me |
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I keep washin' my face with blunts and O.E |
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Mix coke with dust, still can hold me |
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What made ya muthafuckas think you control me? |
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(Lounge Mode) |
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Staten Island been wildin', so Osama's nothing |
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And my niggaz out in Brooklyn said Saddam was frontin' |
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Gotta squad, what you think, it ain't no guns or something? |
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Picture Me Rollin', holdin' less than a one or somethin' |
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You fake faggots, yeah we got that big automatic |
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Like, Bruce Willis and the Jackal type, yeah, right |
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You wanna see it? Then get on my nerves |
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Oh you live, and I'm gettin' money spit on my curb |
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In the hood where it get no harder, only tougher |
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Crack fiends suffer, baby moms, baby brother |
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Hustlin', still forty off a hundred packs |
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I'd rather lounge in the back of the bar |
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Me and my dog throw crack in the jar |
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Listen to this rap star, while I sit back in the car |
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And I told ya'll niggaz how the Staten rock |
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We don't, trick on chicks, yo we clap them shots |
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You get caught if you ask a lot, like you don't know |
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And where you at, then ya ass is got |
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(Chorus) |
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(Solomon Childs) |
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We bringin' back the Twin Towers, 20-0-3, crack game electronic |
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Conceived with slow jams by The Delfonics |
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At a level that you should of been years ago |
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Responsible usually for coke traffic, usually for broken bone tragic |
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Rest in peace, to Mayor Guliani's term |
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They say I'm wrong, shit |
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I'm try'nna see 26, with my daughters at the Emmy Awards |
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All around the ball glowin', they got the weed flow droughted |
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Or maybe niggaz in the hood just ain't 'bout it |
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Talkin' Hercules, and ain't nothin' but dog food |
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Staten Island, New York City drools |
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Crazy glue on my fingerprints |
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Name on the concrete of my hood, what's really good? |
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Vendetta's with these rap stars |
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Frontin' like this crime and the pet is they cars |
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Believe I was God in my last life |
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What if it was your knife? What if they was your gloves, nigga.. |
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(Chorus) |
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(Cappadonna) |
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Aiyo, I came into this game on some real love shit |
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And ya'll bitch ass niggaz, ya'll wanted me to quit |
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Because the way I dress ill and the way that I spit |
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But I ain't never gon' stop, droppin' these joints |
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And ya'll fake ass niggaz, ya'll ain't gettin' no points |
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Don't try to sabotage me, cuz you just can't do it |
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You had me in the Square, last year, but you blew it |
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Big Donna from the group home, that's my word |
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Splash shots at your whip, splash shots at your bird |
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Leave your brains and your Gucci boots up on the curb |
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Pillage for life, Allah's will be the most superb |
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Smoke weed with the cannon, smoke the herb |
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So bow down, all you crab ass clowns you can't live |
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My gun's on empty, but it's more shots to give |
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I pop you like a slave cop, run in your crib |
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Throw darts at your wife, throw darts at your kid |
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Leave your house flooded with hits like O.J. did |
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Escapin' the crime scene and you love how I slid |
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(Chorus) |