| Eightball the Fat Mac must express
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| While a nigga’s gettin zooted from the potent-ass sess
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| Lookin back, damn, I was wild as a juvenile
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| Mama showed love and she struggled for her only child
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| But like my dad I was stuck in the streets
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| I never wanted to work hard, cause that shit ain’t for me Back then only 16, ignorant and curious
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| Mom’s gettin periods cause I wasn’t serious
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| I said f**k school teachers and the church preachers
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| I wanted to hang with my niggas with the street sweepers
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| Back in the days sellin herbs on the
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| Me and Squeaky doin city-wide talent shows
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| Gettin dissed, gettin pissed cause of this shit
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| Cause it’s so hard in this muthaf**kin business
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| I said many times, «Mama, I’ma make you proud»
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| But I could never leave the thug life of Orange Mound
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| I’m on the corner drinkin Thunderbird, slingin rocks
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| They in my hands cause the cops know 'bout the matchbox
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| But I can’t sell dope, rappin is the way, gee
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| And this is just another day around the homies
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| .mid day, I was deep into a sleep
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| Unconscious from that hay that they distribute on em streets
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| My world was constantly spinnin from the Rémy that was in me And we ain’t half-stepped on them blunts, we chiefed up plenty
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| A penny to be earned in a day is what I’m looking for
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| Hopin for, some kind of way to make a little more ducats
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| F**k it, shit that I just needed, I just stuck it Up, hell, nigga might as well
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| Proceed to hustle like a p-i-m-p
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| MJ f**kin G The nigga with the muthaf**kin clout, no doubt
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| The pimps is in the muthaf**kin house
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| Be up out, black folk is takin over
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| You know how I know? |
| Gimme the mic and I show ya I teach ya, I reach ya with this pimpalistic knowledge
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| The shit a nigga learned back in Break-A-Bitch College
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| Started, to hustle at the age of 11
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| Started makin money when a nigga turned 12
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| Started to induldge at the age of 13
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| At 14 a nigga flatfoot was raisin hell
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| In the muthaf**kin hood
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| So many rappers in this industry, I don’t doubt
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| That it’s a bunch of niggas broke with a CD out
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| It ain’t new to me, cause me and MJG
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| Had to struggle just to hustle down in Tennessee
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| In Memphis, tryin to be a rapper
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| But rappin don’t mean shit to Elvis Presley-lovin crackers
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| Plus I’m with a record label gankin me and f**kin me Niggas always promsisin me shit that I will never see
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| Trick-buster always talkin 'bout we family
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| But while I was rappin he was snortin up my royalty
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| So I got smart, hit the streets and said f**k that
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| That’s when this nigga named T Money heard our first track
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| Pack em up, move em out, straight down to Texas
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| Me and JG ridin drop-top Lexus
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| «Coming Out Hard"on the charts in the 'Billboard'
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| Second album droppin and we waitin on our first award
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| Niggas talkin cause the crew ain’t walkin no mo'
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| Them jealous busters tryin to start shit over hoes
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| I don’t know what is worse, livin bad or livin good
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| But the whole world remind me of my neighborhood
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| See, I’m a self-made hustler, trustin the
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| Niggas who think that two heads are better than one
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| And ready to get the job done, son
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| MJG gots game in the street sale
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| That makes me get lifts in the studio
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| Even though it was kind of hard as far as I can see
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| Growin up in the Orange Mound Tennessee community
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| Could it be the future had love for a nigga who
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| Struggled through all type of shit for a bill or two?
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| Still I do shows for my fans cause my fans buy my tapes
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| And the tapes make my g’s and the g’s keeps me straight
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| And I hate when the busters smile all in my face like a hoe
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| And talk shit in the down low
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| Look out, punk, mutha-f**ka, sucka, niggas
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| My finger’s gettin tired of the trigger, dig a Grave, shit, cause I don’t want his boys to have to deal
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| With the smell of the trick I just killed
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| ? |
| if you can’t hang with the stress, best
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| Wipe the big 'S' off your muthaf**kin chest
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| Press issues, makin sure they fully understood
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| 'bout a young nigga life in the muthaf**kin hood |