| Yeah! |
| Uh!
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| Thought for Food, Volume 3
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| Bronzeman, he’s back
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| Yes, I’m back, man
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| Shout out to Motown, Gun Rule (It's me, Jesus Feet)
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| All my niggas, yeah!
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| Ayo
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| What’s swag sauce when I’m coughing up jewelry?
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| The hottest man near the slaughterhouse, surely
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| With better promo, the fans would know accordingly
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| I chop the track up and send it to my orderlies
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| I’m on a beast’s mission, most consistent when you hear it
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| Hip-Hop's dead? |
| I’m at award shows in spirit
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| 106 and Park, kid flows can never feel it
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| Tunnel through the dark mentals, forever feel it
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| Moved off Joy Rd. |
| I still see it healing
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| Still hear the gunshots and I build with the victims
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| Street minister, administer my wisdom
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| Not a gangster, but check my trunk, see what’s in it
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| Might see me sinnin', blowing bags off Lyndon
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| On Cherrylawn, lower flags for kingpins
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| Salute the mission, we shoot we not missin'
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| Timb boots still in my kitchen, in the basement, the henchmen
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| In the palm, what I’m clenchin', make a nigga memory ancient
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| If he get anxious the spark dances
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| This some District 36 shit, daily wig split
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| Burglary and homicide, where my uncle Bobby died
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| That’s right, I got people from here to the Amistad
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| Oh my God, pull my gun if they run up to try and rob
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| Through the midst of the blunted cigars
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| I’m not moving for nobody, I’ve made it this far
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| How can they say such a thing! |
| (Made it this far)
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| Why do we do the things we do?
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| It’s gets off track and it it it, it gets all mixed up in politics!
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| It It gets all mixed up in hierarchy!
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| It gets all mixed up in rules and regulations!
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| And it argues over the poor man in the ditch!
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| And winds up passing him by, and God has to use a heathen Samaritan to pick him
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| up!
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| Take his Gospel to the furtherest corners of the globe, and nothing else
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| matters!!! |