| What, here comes the muthafuckin' 5
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| Pass the Crooked I, comin' straight out of Bed-Stuy
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| 9−19, I believe
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| When I wanna puff a mad L I got the dutch hidden in my sleeve
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| Then I call my man Reels
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| Then we start the El Dorados and pick us up a fat bag of drills
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| Always keep the nine cocked
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| Just in case a nigga feels an appetite for some nice lead lock
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| Caught a nigga from a chin
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| Now his ass is in, hit the preach 'cause he said it was a sin
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| Well, it’s the ill Caucasian, check the invasion
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| Bushwick to White Plains, the world in seven days and back
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| I’m down with the Black Smif-N-Wessun persuasion
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| Wanna flex next, swing one, that’s all she wrote
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| Get the point to the joint, now you’re bendin' for the soap
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| Like my bitch, fuck a bitch real quick, then I vanish
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| I always get the pussy 'cause I tell 'em that I’m Spanish
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| Chill, lay low, I’m throwin' headcracks in cec-lo
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| Niggas losin' dough so now they gots to bet a kilo
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| Mines for the takin', never fakin' when I kick it
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| Girls be on my jock, they want a taste so they lick it
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| Rip it from the back, bust a nut in her crack
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| Big Dru Ha puffin lye and I’m out, black
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| Now you the man, now you the man, now you the man
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| Now you the man, now you the muthafuckin' man
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| Niggas regret it when they get wetted with the automatic weapons
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| When I walk the streets I pack a Tec for protection
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| You know the deal, nowadays shit is real
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| Kid, I had it up to here, muthafuckas better chill
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| 'Cause on the block, yes kid, we get busy
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| Front on my crew and get bust open like a fuckin' Phillie
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| Punk muthafuckers on the mic get violated
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| A rhyme ain’t a rhyme if it ain’t crime-related
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| I’m bustin' raps like a nigga bustin' caps
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| I grab the mic, cock it back and kick the fuckin' facts
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| Stompin' niggas out with my black Timbs
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| Leavin' niggas crippled with artificial limbs
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| A slug in the brain 'cause you tried to sham
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| You thought you was the man, you fuckin' coward
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| I’m with my ill niggas troopin' down Atlantic Ave
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| Three blunts still plus there’s weed in the stash
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| Timb boots flop as the L gets sparked
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| Play the shouts from the street, it’s flames movin' in the dark
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| I’ve had it up to here with y’all weak-ass rappers
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| Bucktown, home of the Originoo Gunn Clappaz
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| The name’s Smif-N-Wessun and we’re representin' lovely
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| Smif draws the 4−5th if you punks try to rub me
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| And I got his back, leave your body lyin' flat
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| It’s time to knuckle up, guard your grill, fuck that
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| Timberlands bootin' up the ass of A&R's
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| You gettin' surgery tryin' to cover up the scars
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| You pussy old bwoy, bett’r watch where ya stand
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| Smif-N-Wessun comin', lettin' you know who’s the man
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| Now you the man, now you the man, now you the man
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| Now you the man, now you the muthafuckin' man
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| These niggas is crazy, but I get real rough, no question
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| Runnin' with Black Moon, representin' Smif-N-Wessun
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| The boy’s crazy, boys roll Mobb Deep
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| Bringin' Havoc, so get dramatic and get splattered in a heartbeat
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| Bits and pieces when I release the boom
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| These type of tunes kept me consumed in a rubber room
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| Now I rock with Buckshot, what the fuck, ock
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| I got 'nuff props so you can get the fat cock
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| I’ve got 1, 2, 3, let me know if you’re ready for me
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| Lawd, you must throw your hands upon the mic and let 'em know
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| About the flow when you rip and stick it 'cause you must get wicked
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| Never hesitate to big up a lyrical gangster, not lyrical prankster, see
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| Straight from the head of Buckshot hittin' 'em real irie
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| Mi never come fi short, mi a-fi shoot upon di mic
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| You gwan fall like di Babylon on sight
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| Taught by my nigga Screwface tie your shoe-lace
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| Let my nigga Bass tell me who take who place
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| Side up and up, side up and up, black
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| Yo chill, parlay, god, they ain’t ready for that
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| They ain’t ready for that
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| Everybody wan fly and get high but nobody wan die, why
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| Hey yo word up, kid
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| That’s not that bullshit
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| Word, hahaha
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| Now you the man, now you the man, now you the man
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| Now you the man, now you the muthafuckin' man |