| I was born in Dorchester in the midst of the torn seventies
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| With bad memories, bad habits and sworn enemies
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| Terrifying prospects, baptized in fire
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| Black Irish chipped teeth, fast lives and liars
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| Cars with fast tires, bitches with no morals
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| Money with no questions, caskets with no florals
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| Bodies with no headstones, dirt naps and apathy
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| I grew up in this, now the worst cats is after me
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| Junkies and con artists with the rivals and survivalists
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| Eyes emits a deep abyss, I sleep with this connivingness
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| No wonder why this virus blister when you ride with us
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| We can’t rid of all the sickness that’s inside of us
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| It’s just a gun but it feels like it’s such a heavy burden
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| It’s just a song but I feel the need to fit every word in
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| It’s just some whiskey but I can feel that the Chevy swerving
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| Are you ready to die now? |
| You better be certain
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| Make moves like Mossad, I’m close to God
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| Close to the jackpot though the road is hard
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| I’d rather take a bullet to the dome than stop
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| So I’mma keep on going till the world is ours
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| Fools cause problems to rise start eons ago
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| Shoot on targets and dive bomb, we on a roll
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| Ski on the snow, try not to sniff yourself off the cliff
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| Know the ledge, know who your enemy
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| Be certain who’s your friend
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| My shooters laugh at things like human trafficking
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| And looming anarchy, impending doom, consuming savagery
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| But keeping it real goes wrong it’s not funny
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| You can your aim fucked up like Slick Rick when he shot his cousin
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| I seen the worm holes through sherm smoke
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| Seen family members burn coke and OD then turn cold
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| Secret to surviving is not dying and pop iron
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| Stop trying to be something you’re not, stop lying
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| Death and life are in the power of the tongue
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| Watch your mouth, what you say could get you showered with the gun
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| Crew spray your soul away, draped in hatred and torture
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| Bones Brigade like Stacy Peralta |