| That’s a nice guy
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| Now that’s a beautiful doll, look at that
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| Yo, back in '88, I was nine or maybe eight
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| Staring at a china plate, dad said I bought it if it breaks
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| Wait, we not a wanting grapes, church drapes stare back at me
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| In Gun Rule, more than one tool in pop’s cabinet
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| He had a rifle, 357 and twenty two
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| Tender age of 'I don’t know', he taught me how to shoot
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| Mosquito’s bite, my trigger finger told me to spark it
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| I’m thinking all the time, how humans used to be his target
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| From hot jungle, a little different from my forest
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| So mind your business, all relatives can hit the florist
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| Now I love fatigues ever since I remember
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| Played war with fake guns, even in cold December
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| Shot time, borrow in the back of the house, he fell out
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| Dusted off this gun like I was cleaning the house
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| Every game we played I was the last one slayed
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| I got in the dirt with a clean shirt, tossing my grenades
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| War was so easy, gats easily be my best friend
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| We had mad lives, and never really would end
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| Moms scared cause I used to come home with purple hearts
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| Loved to break shit, never used a board when throwing darts
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| Booby trap garage, so neighbors can step on glass
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| My pops all got the windows smiling like nerve gas
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| I’m eleven years old and my wargame is too smart
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| Like I’m a hit the streets with a passion that sparks
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| Burnt the fort down with cousins like Vietkong was in it
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| Used to stare at dad’s picture with M-16 guns in it
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| Wished it was me, with a itchy trigger finger
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| So ya’ll better buy my album, or my syndrome might still linger
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| Cause if I didn’t have music, I’d still these hammers
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| Shove it in your gums, empty clips like the cannisters
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| A robbing armored truck, burnt his clip, merge
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| Cause it’s forty hours a week, bullshit is for the birds |