| World Class
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| Since Wreckin' Cru cause my resume say «Wreckin' crews»
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| Cut all my records like the best to do it, destined to
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| Dress for the music so I could step to it
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| Yeah, no one does it better as I step to her
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| Lex Lugers through your smoke and mirrors, I appear miraculous
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| Emotions clear, my devotion matters
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| I clap rappers like awards-show writers
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| What’s the doors of your Viper to the thoughts of a Chrysler?
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| Opportunity knocked on the window of my Limo
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| And offendin' me, tryna give advice how I could get on
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| Nigga, you couldn’t picture the soundscapes I spit on
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| I’ll do it for you, aluminum foil for sitcoms
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| Uh, have rap wrapped like Reynolds for rentals and continentals
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| On Centinela posted like a Sentinel
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| With seven yellers, kiss Ladera on my way to work
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| Skipped church, twisted up the earth in a new shirt
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| Yeah, Dre Day
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| Dre Day
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| Dre Day
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| Uh, and did I mention chronic?
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| Was sick, went through bubonics if you through with knowledge
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| No comment, the Lakers beat the Supersonics
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| Straight Ebonics if you want to call it alcoholic
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| Found my wallet, next thing you know, I’m found on Slauson
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| Talking all them prices down before I take a shot of Sunset
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| We couldn’t crush, we wasn’t one yet
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| If the ones wasn’t huggin' my block, cuffin' my knots
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| I could pull out my chariot, stop, and just ride
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| Uh, for all the bitches and the hoes and tricks
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| Yeah, we brought it back so you don’t forget (Dre Day)
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| Uh, Dre Day |