| One shot deal, one shot, one kill
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| Hit you with the one shot skill
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| Bullets lift you up like you poppin' on the wheel
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| Feel I can’t die when I’m poppin' on the pill
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| So real that it feel, keep Cochran on my heels
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| Who rock the black and back out?
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| Now the MAC back out, just bout to blackout
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| Got the ROC on my back, SP on my chain
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| Shooters on the block slingin' P last name
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| Outta hot pink thangs like Camron Range
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| The cocaine cowboy at work
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| I put ya niggaz in the dirt for one like Dirt
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| Concealed hammer won’t jam or won’t chirp
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| Catch you on my second merk
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| Fresh outta jail, ice grill gat to smirk
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| Bitches on the waste can’t serve 'em
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| ROC without Jay won’t work?
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| Shit like we ain’t here, actin' like SP ain’t here
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| How ya’ll niggaz can’t see that clear? |
| Clear?
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| Yeah, slow all the way down young scrapper
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| Pump ya brakes real fast, before ya crash
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| Crack ya head on the dash
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| I put ya body in a cast, keep my Shotty on blast
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| Hard heads don’t get the picture until they see the flash
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| You ain’t ballin', you pump fakin' till you found in ya trunk naked
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| Four pound to ya crown like, «Where the paper?»
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| B. Sig, cold crook, I trap paper like notebook
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| When the hot water disappear like when coke cook
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| Then resurface, its Sig. |
| Berkowitz, bitch I’m sick
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| Leave that ass like Dama, Sig. |
| heat that ass like sauna
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| Stretch ya body out like recliner
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| Stretch my middle finger to your honor
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| Like, «Fuck the world», that’s my persona, love drama
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| Drop a buildin' like Osama, you vagina
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| I know you wish you never met me like Carl Thomas
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| Try to forget me like all silence
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| Fuckin' with a vet be, all problems
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| I’m not about the threats B, I’m all promise
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| Before «The Truth», position in the booth
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| As a young scrap, I was vicious as a youth
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| Kept a gat movin' pigeons in the Coupe
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| You was strapped, then positioned on the stoop
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| Stay strapped, put my pistol on shoot
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| Mac take ya «Juice"like Bishop on the roof
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| I had ya pissin' in ya trunk like a roof
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| Bullets hit ya chest like a blunt rolled loose
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| I’m that corn liquor nigga, 100 proof
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| I bring the storm, all you niggaz lace ya boots
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| Better yet, pull out ya strings, make a noose
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| Hang yaself, here’s a deuce, deuce
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| Bang yaself like Cheddar Bob
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| I’m in the hood like ST tall cat
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| Crooked Letter ISPCO, nigga
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| Yes I
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| Yes I
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| Matta fact
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| Yeah, Yeah
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| Bring it back
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| Bring it back, me, Doc, America’s blunted
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| Not from there, but I’m Philly Most Wanted
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| Drop and roll, when my biscuit boil
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| Talk is greasy, tongue with Crisco oil
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| Streets is mine, check my flow online
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| Bricks, two on the hip, reach for the sky
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| You and ya Burberry suit is buried alive
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| On top of the Empire, dare me to dive
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| Wee, there I go, no parachute
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| Jackass like Knoxville, hot as Cancun
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| Chest hair is baboon, Redman rip the show
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| I be the raw in ya bitches nose
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| She be goin' to the bathroom, sniffin' blow
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| Like, «Oh Docta shit, my man a joke»
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| I know, I be strapped with a double 4, 4
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| And a Slim Jim to open ya Cadillac door
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| In the Bricks you hear them guns
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| Rat a tat, boom
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| Any nigga get X’ed out like TicTacToe
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| Any bitch that know, Redman goin' the distance
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| We ain’t tryin' to get fucked for instance
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| When you bust baby, gon light the insence
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| Pass me the rag, hop back in the Jag
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| I stole out the showroom with the pricetag
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| I wrote this rhyme off 25 blunt drags
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| Hear that sound leave a block hunchback
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| Killa House, understand prick
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| We ain’t gon stop till we «Rich bitch»
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| Holla back, Redman, Beanie Sigel
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| Killa House |