| Man I spit my game at a mile a minute
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| I got a dope ass watch with no diamonds in it
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| I like to sway back and fourth like a jesus piece
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| And I’m Harlem Nights ready like Della Reese
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| What you tell that freak? |
| It’s a quarter to 8
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| I’m at Tad’s takin down this t-bone steak
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| I’m from the B-A-Y A-R-E-A
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| Fillmoe, God-Khan, Nicky, Andre
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| I probably said it before/ Yo, squares beware
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| That debonair, savoir faire in the air
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| I got Air Forces 1s god, I keep em untied
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| I’m married to the game, never see the bride
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| You look into my eyes it got the color of a sticker
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| They get a little bloodshot when I hit liquor
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| My timex ticker is tickin'
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| It keep me up nights I can’t help but listen
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| I bust with destruction, at any little function
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| You can say something, I don’t wanna hear nothing
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| Keep it all coming, guns keep gunnin'
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| The crack game changed but dope fiends hit the oven
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| My life line’s in the picture frame
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| A lost soul tryna find home again
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| Yo my Billy Holliday characteristics
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| Pushes me towards the dope that I have to get with
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| My Timex is the ticker
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| It’s like a track meet, girl you gotta get quicker
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| Gotta get quicker, gotta get quicker
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| Gotta get quicker |