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[Tupac] |
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I ain't got no mother******g friends |
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That's why I ****** your ************* |
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You fat mother******* (Take Money) |
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West Side |
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Bad Boy Killers (Take Money) |
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You know who the realist is |
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*************s we bring it to (Take Money) |
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(ha ha, that's alright) |
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First off, ************* your ************* |
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And the clique you claim |
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West side when we ride |
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Come equipped with game |
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You claim to be a player |
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But I ****** your wife |
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We bust on Bad Boys |
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*************s ************* for Life |
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Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak |
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Hearts I rip |
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Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia |
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Some mark ass ******* |
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We keep on coming |
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While we running for your jewels |
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Steady gunning |
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Keep on busting at them fools |
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You know the rules |
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Little Ceasar go ask you homie |
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How I'll leave you |
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Cut your young ass up |
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See you in pieces |
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Now be deceased |
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Little Kim, |
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Don't ************* around with real G's |
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Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets |
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So ************* peace |
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I'll let them *************s know |
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It's on for Life |
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Don't let the west side |
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Ride the night (ha ha) |
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Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill |
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************* with me |
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And get your caps peeled |
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You know, see |
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[Chorus:] |
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Grab your glocks when you see 2pac |
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Call the cops when you see 2pac, uh |
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Who shot me, |
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But your punks didn't finish |
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Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace |
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*************, I hit 'em up |
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Check this out |
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You mother*******s know what time it is |
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I don't even know why I'm on this track |
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You all *************s ain't even on my level |
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I'm going to let my little homies |
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Ride on you |
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************* made ass Bad Boys ******* |
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(ah yo, yo, hold the ************* up) |
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Get out the way yo |
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Get out the way yo |
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Biggie Smalls just got dropped |
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Little move pass the mac |
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And let me hit 'em in his back |
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Frank White needs to get spanked right |
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For setting traps |
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Little accident murderers |
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And I ain't never heard of you |
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Poisonous gats attack when I'm serving you |
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Spank the shank |
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Your whole style when I gank |
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Guard your rank |
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'cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang |
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Puffy weaker than a ******' block |
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I'm running through ************* |
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And I'm smoking Junior Mafia |
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In front of you ************* |
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With the ready power |
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Tucked in my Guess |
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Under my Eddie Bauer |
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Your clout petty sour |
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I push packages ever hour |
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I hit 'em up |
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[Chorus] |
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Peep how we do it |
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Keep it real |
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Its penitentiary steel |
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This ain't no freestyle battle |
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All you *************s getting killed |
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With your mouths open |
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Tryin' to come up off of me |
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You in the clouds hoping |
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Smoking **** |
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It's like a Sherm high |
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*************s think they learned to fly |
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But they burn mother******* you deserve to die |
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Talking about you Getting Money |
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But it's funny to me |
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All you *************s living bummy |
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While you ******g with me? |
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I'm a self made Millionaire |
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Thug livin', out of prison |
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Pistols in the Air (Air) (Ha Ha) |
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Biggie remember when I use to let you sleep on the couch |
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And beg the ************* to let you sleep in the house |
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Now it's all about Versace |
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You copied my style |
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Five shots couldn't drop me |
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I took it and smiled |
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Now I'm back to set the record straight |
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With my A-K |
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I'm still the thug that you love to hate |
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Mother******* I'll Hit 'Em Up |
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I'm from N E W Jers. |
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Where plenty of murder occurs |
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No points to come |
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We bring drama to all you herds |
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Now go check the scenario |
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Little Ceas' |
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I'll bring you fake G's to your knees |
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Coppin' pleas in de Janeiro |
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Little Kim is you |
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Coked up or ****d up |
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Get your little Junior Whopper clique smoked up |
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What the *************? |
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Is you stupid? |
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I take money, |
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crash and mash through Brooklyn |
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With my clique looting, shooting, and polluting your block |
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With fifteen shot, |
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*******ed glock to your knot |
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Outlaw Mafia clique moving up another notch |
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And your Pop stars popped and get mopped and dropped |
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And all your fake ass east coast props |
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Brainstormed and locked |
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You's a beat biter |
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Pac style taker |
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I'll tell you to your face, you ain't *************t but a faker |
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Soften than Alize with a chaser |
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'bout to get murdered for the paper |
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E.D. I mean post the scene of the caper |
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Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke (uh) |
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Toting smoke, we ain't no mother******' joke |
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Thug Life, *************s better be known |
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Be approaching |
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In the wide open, gun smoking |
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No need for hoping |
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It's a battle lost |
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I gottem crossed as soon as the funk is bopping off |
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*************, I hit 'em up |
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Now you tell me who won |
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I see them, they run (ha ha) |
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They don't wanna see us |
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Whole Junior Mafia clique |
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Dressing up trying to be us |
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How the ************* they gonna be the Mob? |
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When we always on out job |
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We millionaire's |
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Killing ain't fair |
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But somebody got to do it |
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Oh yah Mobb Deep (uh) |
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You wanna ************* with us |
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You Little young ass mother*******s |
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Don't one of you *************s got sickle-cell or something |
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You're ******g with me, *************? |
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You ************* around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack |
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You better back the ************* up |
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Before you get smacked the ************* up |
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This is how we do it on our side |
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Any of you *************s from New York that want to bring it, |
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Bring it. |
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But we ain't singing, |
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We bringing drama |
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************* you and your mother ******g mama. |
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We're gonna kill all you mother *******s. |
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Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie. |
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Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother ******g opinion |
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Well this is how we gonna' do this: |
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************* Mobb Deep, |
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************* Biggie, |
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************* Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother ******g crew. |
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And if you want to be down with Bad Boy, |
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Then ************* you too. |
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Chino XL, ************* you too. |
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All you mother *******s, |
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************* you too. |
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(take money, take money) |
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All of y'all mother *******s, |
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************* you, die slow mother*******. |
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My four four (.44 magnum) make sure all your kids don't grow. |
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You mother*******s can't be us or see us. |
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We mother ******' Thug Life riders. |
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West Side till' we die. |
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Out here in California, ************* |
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We warned ya' |
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We'll bomb on you mother *******s. |
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We do our job. |
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You think you the mob, *************, we the mother******' mob |
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Ain't nothing but killers |
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And the real *************s, all you mother*******s feel us. |
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Our *************t goes triple and four quadruple |
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You *************s laugh 'cause our staff got guns under they mother******' belts |
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You know how it is and we drop records they felt |
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You *************s can't feel it |
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We the realist |
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************* 'em. |
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We Bad Boy killers. |