| Yo, who stepped off rage
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| Broke cracked bottle tops, spilled this forever
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| Whites, no trace, leather jacket zipped up to his face
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| He dipped behind the wall, Shalenka couldn’t aim to touch it
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| These cats have started something that they couldn’t finish
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| Now they flee the country
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| Yo, shot guy, God please forgive this life we’re living
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| Takin' mans for diems, aiyo, hands on your head where I can see 'em
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| The chron’s shone, spit out the combine
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| I’m tryin' to make my exit real quick
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| We leave no form of evidence
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| Bakin' slugs out the dark
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| Wild shoot-outs through the park
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| These jail houses overcrowdin'
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| All my thugs remain calm
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| Money turnin', trees is burnin'
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| But one day, it’ll be gone
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| (now one day)
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| I’m your suspect
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| Yo, heavy chrons with small engravments
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| Digits wit' small letters that name it
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| Man created, but always to blame it
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| I’m far rusted, pushin' your glusted, you busted and pussy
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| Open your face and get chopped, just like a cussy
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| You’re pyro, I got one eye lookin' straight down the barrell
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| Don’t mistake me for shhhh, I’ll eat your food and real quick
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| Burn up the gear I dressed in
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| Meanwhile the motive got them itchin' questions and guesses
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| What would you ask God if you had one question?
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| Aiyo, deal wit' your family in your life
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| Don’t try to flop mine, they puttin' over dates and trials
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| Little snitches turn into coffins and push six
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| A man could be my worst enemy, I’ll take this
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| ]From pyramids, beer caps to dollar bills with faces
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| Got me chasin' bloody papers
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| Scatterd 'cross the floor like forty acres
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| So tired that, better yet, picture this from beer caps
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| To dollar bills, black clips, lyrical high tips
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| Yo, half a dutch inside a candle seed
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| Liquor bottles in cemetarys
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| 'Nuff built up inside my body, but the Lord is my salvation
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| Still have to make a move, cause just put off
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| Broken fingers on metal tables, hands off, I’ll pull off
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| Black caddies and starlen windows that’s bulletproof
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| All you could see is fog off the door
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| And richotched to the floor
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| Thirty-four fours, align your back, all straight to your jaw’s jaws
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| All pause, lookin' through the barrell, it’s all yours |