| Made money, watch for the cops that go a hundred, crazy summer
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| Moved on up, Fivers are on it, that or a shooter
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| Who I’m around, every hoovers want a new block
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| These is the projects, let me screw you top of the day
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| Thermometer high, niggas’ll shoot up
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| More gun shots than in Felluajah, call it Chiraq
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| Hundred-g lines, no tellin on the mile back
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| Get a real junkie to test the product, hold the ice pot
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| Warm up the pot, let it rock up, stay on your grind
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| Get that shit jumpin', start off with dimes and on the week days
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| Take 25 give 'em all 3 bags
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| Within a week you’re gettin' money, the cliché
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| Come through bumpin' your head and he say
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| They all say that he paid
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| And now people wondering what he made
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| And if your weak eh, can he be robbed, beast hey
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| Now he gotta go Mobb Deep on me
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| Street knowledge, we puttin' these books to the test
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| We puttin' two to the chest for niggas who rock vests
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| Food for though, spittin' out verbs for sport
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| In these streets you better walk the walk or come up short
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| Don’t let 10 miles get you oxed up, boxed up in the cage
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| On some brewed hot shit, bitches burning bundles of sage
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| Your crack rock too pure, they gonna set you up
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| Chain too big on your neck, they calling you King Tut
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| Trust no one whose sweat bands is narc IDs
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| And run for the hills, if you hear anybody yell, freeze
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| Stash your cheese better, them shoe boxes don’t work
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| That’s some old school shit, like money in the mattress
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| Bitches is actresses, just screw 'em and leave
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| They fuck up your whole operation like Adam and Eve
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| Don’t play the roof tops, change the color of your blue tops
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| And them bags with the smily faces, get new stocks
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| You can’t run in skinny jeans, serve fiends my any means
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| Sprinkle coke in the dust blunt to spice up your greens
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| This the school of street gems from your boy Tony Yano
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| You wanna check for it nigga, slide across the Verrazano |