| Cold as the cold in the wintertime
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| Slow rhyme, when I rhyme, no beginner I’m
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| City walk when they said tryna make a dime
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| They don’t ask for too much, just a little shine
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| A little time on the grind tryin get that gwop
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| Wasn’t worth eight years for your first time pop
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| Now you back rehabilitated punching the clock
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| Old neighbourhood witnessin your man in the drop
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| Got the drop on that nigga, said he runnin the block
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| Graduated from the greens to servin up rock
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| So you plot and you think and you sin on the plan
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| On some ski mask shit but that’s your man
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| I’m sayin, you tryna push reasons to the front
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| And put a block on that other shit you want
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| But the streets keep callin your name
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| A nine to five slave to the rhythm ain’t bringin you fame
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| So it’s back to the game, round up a little gang
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| Set it up to stick your mayne but he stick you first, goodbye
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| I’ve seen em rise, seen em fall
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| Seen em come, seen em go, seen em all
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| Seen stars with they name on the wall
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| Till the money get tight and the limelight stall
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| 3AM in the backseat leanin
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| Thinkin bout all the things I seen man
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| Remember, before niggas was on the bandwagon
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| I fell asleep to the sound of hand cannons
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| Leavin holes in souls the size of Grand Canyons
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| Late night, Spindle Street with my man Brendan
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| Fast-forward twelve years, now we grandstandin
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| Because I maintainin, without man tannin
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| And it made me an animal
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| But I need another quarter before the catalogue
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| I could dumb down and rap for bitches and alcohol
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| But I’m too loud and too proud to tap dance for these crackers dog
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| So, won’t be no Gregory Hyman
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| When Te get hostile he spit gospel like he in the whiners
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| And right now he into findin
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| A new platform for the rhymes that I arrange
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| And new ideas for the lines that I exchange
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| Cause I can’t be a laughin stock homie, that’d be a cryin shame
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| All I need is six bars and an intro
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| Cause I relate to these beats like we was kinfolks
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| And the flow so fresh like lentils
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| And this is all real talk, that’s for your info
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| Cause that’s where I been yo, ho 3AM in the backseat leanin
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| Thinkin bout all the things I seen man
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| Grindin, timin, motherfucker
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| Rep up, stepped up motherfucker
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| So quiet, coulda crept on the sucker
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| From behind and blew the breath out the buster
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| But instead held my head like a hustler
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| Parked up to get the sound of the muffler
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| Heard a clown buyed his pounds, bein fluffier
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| Tellin niggas outa town they be luckier
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| It get sad when the hood had enough of ya Broke niggas buck at ya, poke you in ya jugular
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| But when you high you feel niggas can’t fuck witcha
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| I’m surprised the nigga still had customers
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| Shut my eyes and inhaled my smoke
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| Tryna decide should I let him slide, but nope
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| He broke ties when he spoke his lies
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| Tellin spies that he hope I die so my reply is To keep it real, I hope he can fly
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| Cause I’ma send him to them open skies
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| 3AM in the backseat leanin
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| Thinkin bout all the things I’ve seen man |