| Headz Ain’t Ready for this Clik we got
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| Headz Ain’t Ready man I swear they not
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| Nowadays I had it up to here, from my chest to my head
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| When the buddha bless bless my head then the eyes are red
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| Coming for ya, 3−2-1 nice to know ya
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| You wanted to pop junk
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| So now it’s like a little Vigor
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| I outta floor ya
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| Heads ain’t ready got the original guns and machetes
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| I pen that ass to the grass like I was Teddy
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| Cause brothers ain’t ready for the fros and the dreads
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| Grab the Glock and hit ya from ya toes to ya head
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| There’s an X amount of yar-we, yo pass the gar-weed
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| Pass it over here so I can get Irie-why we
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| Smoke so much brothers be asking
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| Why the Originoo Gunn Clappaz keep on clapping
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| Heads ain’t ready for what my clique got in store
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| Cause what we got in store keeps us prepared for the war
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| Shows get blown, hoes get thrown out the room
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| Plus napkins for nitwits that ride these from now 'til noon
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| Now assume — position, punks pissing they pants
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| Cause lyrical skills is making you feel.
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| Still if-in-case you didn’t know how we be livin
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| It’s in, my nature to keep Robin like Givens
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| For real doe, bring your steel bro'
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| Kill or be killed jerk — you don’t know
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| So that leaves ya screwed like a dildo
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| I still blow, punks I crush into dust
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| Plus we got ya bucks (Who the warriors?)
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| Rock and Ruck, and what?
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| What’s that aroma in the air? |
| Trees
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| So what that means son?
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| Son that mean it’s huntin season
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| Time to stack papes do you got what it takes
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| Can you react when your life’s at stake?
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| I rock the stripes of an M-P, pon my timb tree
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| And keep the Taurus for my enemies
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| Whenever he comes in the mist of this Boot Camp Clik
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| It gets realer so watch Steele serve justice
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| Thirty-two degrees freeze until
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| These MC’s decide to relieve you of grievin
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| On my way from out of state, I hit my block F-A-P
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| Wit my man Ruck and my man Rock S-T
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| Jus left my man brown nose
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| Now we got a sack of the black for the shows
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| Clothes, ain’t really nothing to me
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| But I stay with my Timberland tree, and my
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| Rock, the party, keep my hair notty
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| Did you notice me flowing with potency
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| Buckshot b-d-b-d and the Evil Dee, we rock fluently
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| Mr. McGee don’t get me angry (why?)
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| You wouldn’t like it when I’m angry
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| Ill thoughts to the dome start to change me
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| Rearrange the, way I be kicking, my flavor
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| Even my neighbours
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| Notice a change in the Ruckus behaviour
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| Now you roaches don’t even come close or approach this
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| What I be smoking leave your monkey ass choking
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| Straight from yardie like the one Robert Marley
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| You hardly ever saw me witout a bag of that bomb weed
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| I wake up in the morning and chocolate’s what starts it
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| Reaching in my pocket for the roach to spark it
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| I’m steppin in hotter this year
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| Wit my bredern dry-tear, my cousin wit no fear
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| So who — wanna come tess Top Dawg
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| They dig you out the ditch and then they take you to the morgue
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| Here’s Mr. Meaner, the crook with the mouth full
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| Known for being live and rocking those flavor Timbos
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| Half pass Lincoln, clothes dead and stinking
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| Country boy got me just zoning and thinking
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| Time to start stacking on you crab ass snakes
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| Gotta move right, cause my rep’s at stake
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| Call up my dogs that’s quick to bust
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| P.N.C. |
| take it back to the dust
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| Now I got four eyes to watch my back
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| Plus my own two make it a full six-pack
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| Now we bring the ruckus to wannabe nuccas
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| Bodying suckas like I change up my chuckas
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| Don’t you know the W-a-r (war)
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| Is o-n (on) open to them heads scoping
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| Hoping they can get a bite, and write what I write
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| But they don’t know the night
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| Keeps me and my Clik air tight (right)
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| All you biters wanna chunk the script
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| But your quick to take a flick
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| By my side as you take my hand, giving the fake smile
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| But I peeped you for awhile
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| Ease off selector when the B.D. |
| pulled your file
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| Can I pull your card again, the Buck’s guardian
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| Is the Arm-a-Leg-Leg-Arm-a-Head
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| So begin to drop the bombs (Heltah Skeltah)
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| Booyah!
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| You ask for it, who want beef well here’s war
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| For this I packs twin automatic 4−4's
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| Kids this ain’t before don’t even speak about my fleet
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| Many pop junk but front when them see me
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| Them not ready
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| Headz Ain’t Ready for this Clik we got (them not ready)
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| Headz Ain’t Ready man I swear they not (nah)
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| Heady Ain’t Ready for the Clik we got (we really ready)
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| Headz Ain’t Ready man I swear they not (nah)
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| Headz Ain’t Ready. |
| for the Click we got
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| (They ain’t nowhere near ready) |