| Ayo, it’s ill when I’m heated how my heart stay cold
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| Write a rhyme that make the gats around the world explode
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| Now behold the burning malice of a treacherous soul
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| First time I shot a gun duke, I was 12 years old
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| But since then, I’ve never put it down my friend
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| She go to war when I tell her
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| Fuck a who, why, when, til the end
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| Indeed its good to have and not need
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| Even better when you can shoot back and not bleed
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| Take heed, poppin like an El full of seed
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| My team is gettin bigger, got more mouths to feed
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| Shorty let me tell you bout my only vice
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| It got to do with lots of money and it ain’t nothin nice
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| It ain’t nothin nice
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| Ay, you believe in God?
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| You do, tell him to save you
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| Cause me and these niggas here
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| We ain’t tryin to pay you
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| Regardless of the fact that its close to home
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| I gotta finish your life, so I can start my own
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| My own nigga
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| Ayo, my audios guaranteed to lift the audience
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| It was that time again
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| So we gathered up 40 men
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| 40 ounces, trees burning, heads bouncin
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| Dollars is the mission
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| Sittin in the yoga position
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| Isolate my mind from your bitchin
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| Pulp fiction
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| Lose you in the mix in
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| Lets get this poppin, lock down the top 10
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| Knockin pretty boy cats on they ass each time we drop kid
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| Yeah, you know how we comin'
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| Raw grooves with the funky drum drummin'
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| And when my song goes off
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| You’ll still be hummin'
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| Noddin' your head, or singin my chorus
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| The after midnight feen
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| The 4 in the morning blunt feen
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| Peelin dutches
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| Fill em in like taco shells
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| Willing judges
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| Wheeling jake with half a cake in my coat
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| Pointin gats like remotes
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| At cats with federal notes
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| Tossin bodies off boats
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| Our own nigga, our own |