| Yo, yo, yo, yo, I wanna reminisce a little real on this one, man
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| You know, I wanna go way back, man
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| You know, so don’t stop the tape
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| You know, I’ma kick something so everybody know what time it is, man
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| Now, here’s a little story I have to tell
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| About three young niggas, you know so well
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| It started way back in history
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| With my main homie K-Oss and the homie KM. |
| G
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| Yeah, we used to push big weight, on the north side of P-Town
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| So you don’t have to question, if we really down
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| Check your nigga for his heart, if he’s smart
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| See, he’s broke down, go and kick it in the park after dark
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| Cause niggas be trying to short stop the work
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| But I’m, «Nobody move, Nobody get hurt»
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| We had to watch for the snitches, the bitches
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| The ones that sake them bitches from them feds when they smash through
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| Without a clue, that was scary
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| So we had to pack up the shack and we moved down the Moeberry
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| All the neighbors who are know on ya
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| And all I can remember is Grace saying: Baby, I’ma pray for ya
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| It was dooming big trouble, speedy local too
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| We took turns when the real money came through
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| And if the Po-Po rush anyway
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| They be thinking all the way, they’re fucking Cali 'fore they find yay
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| We make the killing at summer
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| Cause back then, the police was more dumber
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| Yeah, Young black niggas, no job, no schooling
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| Yeah, straight cluck, we was ruling
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| I mean from Ghosttown to Cin-town, all the way to the Islands
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| Coming through cause violence
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| I served any mothafucker being Blood or Crip
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| We be the last mothafuckers that was known to slip
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| Or trip up, and I’ma help you meet your Maker
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| That’s how it is, when I’m chasing that paper, for real
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| I’ma keep hustling til the day I die
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| Cause see, the rap game and pimp game is all the same
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| So put your hands in the air, if you feel what I’m going through
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| Then let me know to keep it true, ugh
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| See, I can propose a toast to the illest Pimp gang in the motherfucking town
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| And my lawer standing ground
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| Vitals running through my mind, thinking about the time
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| When I was like strolling, one-time patrolling the hood
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| My knuckle K-Oss had a little-Old-Spot
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| With a gang of rocks, and a fat-Ass-Knot
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| Yeah, we’re pushing down the block with dubs and tools
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| Went to the little spot to scoop my nigga Daddy Cool
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| Trigga nigga, the one that keeps the Ese’s loco
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| The one with the rough, rugged, platinum vocals
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| He said: he loved how we’re doing it, right?
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| Busters, mad-dogging what that Clinic like
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| But anyway, put some chemicals all up in the air
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| And call this whore, that wants to do your fucking hair
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| 7-up's got a lick, and we need to be lovely
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| A smooth little taking from them fools of raw making
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| They gave it up, like a groupie
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| No Gun play by K-Cavy flosses, and case of Tanqueray
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| Shoot back to the crib with the straps
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| Then hook up at the shack with them Bel-l-rats
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| Ugh, yeah, ugh, Pimp Clinic represents to the. |
| ugh fullest
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| Yeah, ugh, yeah, ninety twist-style, ninety twist-style
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| We’re flipping ki’s, you know what I’m saying?
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| Hah, yeah, ugh, yeah, it’s all the same
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| Ugh, yeah, ugh |