| Leavin the cut in a rage
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| Loadin up my Mac, goin to my crib, to get my 12 gauge
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| One of my boys just got shot, huh
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| Fuckin around, in that million dollar spot
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| A educated brother
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| Didn’t have no money for college he was taught the street knowledge
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| Part of the plan
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| To keep us fightin in the street instead of becomin a strong black man
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| Every two weeks I see Sam
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| Pitchin out my check with no respect but I still don’t give a damn
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| Becaause I GOTTA make my dough
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| My kill, rocked down, til I started seein cash flow
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| Everything happens for a reason, choose the season
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| To commit the perfect treason
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| Who brought me -- to the land, of unfree man
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| To move about and catch trout, by the dozens
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| Even had my cousin locked down, at the feet shackled
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| A one-way seat, to Milledgeville
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| Nigga this real, how can you kill another
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| When it’s your brother? |
| Still Standing
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| I never thought about, talked about what I did
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| Just experimented life as a young Gump
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| Them days long gone, school bells done rung no mo'
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| Spendin hours at the house in my favorite chair
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| Slow mo', custom funk fingerprinted to carry a hucklebuck
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| Feelin stuck with the art that my skin carries, scary
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| If I ever had to plot again, needin my stick
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| ?Gidgets to pidgits, moves to Philly and the crew?
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| Nothin else to prove, fold a plot like chrome
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| Salt lick teddy bears in the college student’s room
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| Speed, Gipp got that too
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| Watch that dude, inspect that fool, Still Standing
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| Chorus: all together
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| Unscathed, cause this is pain
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| This for soldiers to feel
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| MC’s, are running out of things to say
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| Radio stations are running out of songs to play
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| Still Standing, unscathed, cause of pain
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| This for soldiers to feel
|
| MC’s, are running out of things to say
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| Radio stations are running out of songs to play
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| On the sick side, of South Central
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| 33rd Avenue, block 600
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| Workers have wash and car details
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| The ese’s got the fresh Chevrolet’s for sale
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| Twenty G’s or better, the whole neighborhood tanked up
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| What? |
| On the fortress walls, there is no letters
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| Buddha say, the Bloods are strictly outnumbered
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| They beseiged, on the beats, Goodie Mo-B, run the creeps
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| Y’all can have the streets, asphault caught many suckers
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| Slippin on wet floors, we puttin out the signs
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| On krokers, C-I, T-Y, such a pity
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| Bein suckled dry, like a newborn
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| On his momma’s titty before I retired I hit twenty
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| True to cellulite with big? |
| room pesquite? |
| on the porch
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| Poundin, like cartoon Ennis, old school efforts
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| Through the Sunday down, Crenshaw sparkin
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| Zoned out, off the ink, for life
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| Goin through time and metal detectors, I can’t take my weapon
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| And I can’t be no dope dealer
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| Cause they be done put a hit out on a nigga, plus I can’t keep up
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| With them keys, locked in the fo'-do'
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| Backseat drivers havin out-of-body experiences
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| Wakin up, somewhere else… Still Standing
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| Yeah.
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| Each and every element that exists in this
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| Universe is manifested from a thought first
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| Through the inner mind’s eye of the unseen power in the sky
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| Gave birth to Mother Earth and all it’s worth to you and I
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| This most loved invention, my conciousness is an extension
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| Of Him, yet I’m flesh and bone with a mind of my own
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| To dig deeper than the surface, whether I learn
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| From your upcomings or your downfalls we all have individual purpose
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| It’s amazing, how the streets do the majority of raising
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| Of children who end up dead before hearing what you said
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| And it’s sad, so all I can write about is what I had
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| Interpretations of life good and bad with a pen and pad
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| It seems like abortion, when I just write a small portion
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| It’s either crumpled up or torn without lettin the thought be born
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| Young minded, and blinded in those days; |
| I didn’t want to
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| Have a thought that I couldn’t raise, nurture, and care for
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| Be there for, help prepare for, the times ahead
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| When someone doesn’t agree with what is said, huh
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| And if they did, don’t get all arrogant cause that’s my kid
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| Just be thankful that it’s good and somebody overstood
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| Now, the listener in here want the same flow but I gotta let it grow
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| Clever enough to let it go, if I don’t wanna rap no mo'
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| And I’ll make sure that no one ever forgets
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| It’s immortalized forever, on wax CD’s and casettes
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| And when someone goes to the store and purchases it for ten
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| The life cycle starts all over again
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| And I was granted this music as my soulmate, to procreate
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| And give back what I was given, a life worth livin
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| And I, am Still Standing, unscathed
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| Pain is for suckers to feel
|
| MC’s are running out of things to say, and
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| Radio stations running out of songs to play, shit!
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| We Still Standing, unscathed
|
| And pain is for suckers to feel, huh
|
| And MC’s running out of things to say… |