| Bring the light to the dark
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| A-O-T-P, yeah!
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| I Self, Lord and Master, I’m not a rapper
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| The industry been in a nigga pockets, since Napster
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| So me explainin' why I’m still grinding, I don’t have to
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| I’d sell my masters, if the cash come
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| 'Cause my girl need a new car and baby need Pampers
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| It’s real shit, y’all never know about it ask us
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| Side jobs in retail, detail cars and ride trash trucks
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| Never complain, we never had much
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| The ends won’t justify the means, it don’t add up
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| Rap, work, and sell dope, now that’s a mash-up
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| Kids say they wanna do this? |
| I just crack up
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| I tell em stay in school, fool, you need a backup
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| Ayo, I’m blowin' brown every day to keep the stress down
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| And niggas that I seem to let 'round, they always let down
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| So I’m building a bunch of young niggas like Brett Brown
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| They all ballers, keepin' niggas in check so when I
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| Big up my set I’m payin' homage to Pharaohs
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| And when you hear me spit, acknowledge my vowels
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| It’s probably foul
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| I never change the language for change, It’s slang written
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| Half my life gamblin' heists to keep that thang with 'em
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| Suplex mangler, but it’s a cold word baby
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| So I’m a North Face and Cumberland whore chasin'
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| So knuckle up or get cutted up
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| Or smacked with the butt end of the gun
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| Buttercup, for trying to fuck with us
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| Who dumb enough to try one of us?
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| We peelin' your girl off the grill of a Hummer truck
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| When the sun come up
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| Who one of us? |
| Raise your face to the skies
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| And watch the mortals make way for the return of the Gods
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| Pharaohs
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| A-O-T-P cock the latch back, clack clack
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| O-P-G got the straps in the back pack
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| Bodies in the trunk of the '96 hatch-back
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| Punch you in the face, slap your man out his snap back
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| A-O-T-P cock the latch back, clack clack
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| O-P-G got the straps in the back pack
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| Bodies in the trunk of the '96 hatch-back
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| Punch you in the face, slap your man out his snap back
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| I’m John Allen Muhammad livin' out of a van
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| Picking off bystanders with a rifle in hand
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| I’m demented, I’m a couple cards short of a full deck
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| I’m a liar, I’m the charismatic man in a pulpit
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| I’m A-O-T-P, Demigodz, J-M-T
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| A faith healer, healing through death on CD
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| I am not a role model, you should raise your own kids (come on)
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| I’m a dirty rap nigga with fruit flies in my crib
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| I’m strange, I’m deranged, I’m fascinated with death
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| I chain smoke cigarettes, I got terrible breath
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| The show’s almost over, only two songs left
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| So cop a T-shirt, find the exit and step, nigga
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| Aye-o fuck being a good person, I’m in the hood workin'
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| Smoking shit to numb my pain, I don’t know if you could nurse him
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| Doctors can’t figure out what to do with him
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| Once upon a time, he used to have screws in him
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| Now Lucifer let loose in me, they not used to me
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| I’m not what I used to be
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| I used to be a young nigga, silly state of mind
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| Now I’m just a nigga going crazy like he facing time (uhh)
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| I’m from the hood where the young die
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| If you don’t lay low, you get hung high
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| Nigga I lay low, and still hang high
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| In my head, shit only hit the fan when your man die
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| I take a sip of this liquor inspired with hearses
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| Nobody survivin', I smoke my weed out of Bible verses
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| Inspire churches to sin, what?
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| I inspire churches to bring niggas like me in, clear of my sins but
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| Why would you ever try to be God with me?
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| Why would you bother me, why don’t you ever see prophecy?
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| Possibly honestly, Sodom, Gomorrah atrocity
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| Mephistopheles at the door to door, a monopoly
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| Why would you lie to me? |
| Why would you see the Allah in me?
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| Am I the only one who see comedy in monogamy?
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| I lay back, eat mozzarella and sliced swordfish
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| Put my feet up on the table in my nice office
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| Black mask, black millimeter, white Porsches
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| Every single rhyme Vinnie write, type gorgeous
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| Hahahahaha listen, Pistolero Pazzie
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| A-O-T-P cock the latch back, clack clack
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| O-P-G got the straps in the back pack
|
| Bodies in the trunk of the '96 hatch-back
|
| Punch you in the face, slap your man out his snap back
|
| A-O-T-P cock the latch back, clack clack
|
| O-P-G got the straps in the back pack
|
| Bodies in the trunk of the '96 hatch-back
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| Punch you in the face, slap your man out his snap back |