| Feel my nature rise, blood shot red eyes
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| Waitin' in your back seat, catch you by surprise
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| Situations and circumstances make you take them dangerous chances
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| Leave you in your front seat with your neck slit, then I’m hittin' fences
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| Now I’mma talk about the same dirty situation
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| Shit you hatin', that’s why your casket is waitin'
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| Shine your ass up like a triple gold Dayton
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| When I’m in your town you better cut like Walter Payton
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| Studio man keep tapin', I got that bitch, she peratratin'
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| Show your whole family, leave you on your front porch hangin'
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| With a note that’s saying: 'sincerely, Swartzaniggaz'
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| Put your hands in your pocket, give it up
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| I demand I need my tweed, potent refer, man
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| Bandstandin' with the hand cannon
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| Split my face, muthafucka, gimme your scrill
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| And that Rolex in your hand, understand?
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| Yeah, you gots to feel my nature rise
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| I can feel my nature rise
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| Starin' at the marks that I despise
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| Through evil eyes, hostile thoughts turn homicides
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| You gots to die, for tryna ride and get me
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| Got some off, but none of them hit me
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| Now on a payback tip, with a pitch black mask
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| On the grass with a 50 caliber weapon
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| Hangin' up over the door of the Chev and causin' slaughter
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| Sid’s Malt Liquor be that motive when I be loaded off that water
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| Saw the situation heavy rollin'
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| Shotgun and a Chevy that’s stolen
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| Strapped up and ready in case these niggas wanna get deadly
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| We can go there, I know there’s a place for busta niggas like ya’ll
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| But I heard it’s pretty deep down so you niggas better watch your fall
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| Too late for that 911 call, this murder’s already in progress
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| Home invasions like Asian got me obsessed like a Vietnam vet
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| As I kick through the front door, blastin'
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| And Lynch kicked down the back
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| Operation: Peel-a-cap, you fools shoulda already had your gats loaded
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| Cuz it ain’t no tellin' when we comin'
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| Back streets, sacks of weed get blazed as we gunnin' with the engine still
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| Runnin'
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| Cuz real killers make them real quick get aways
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| Spray the whole place and skirt
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| As quick as we can, we does our dirt
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| Whoever gets hurt, that’s business
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| So please don’t take this personal
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| It’s just that murder’s in my nature
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| So four years now, that’s what I’ve been searchin' for
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| Cuz doin' dirt grows old when it’s the same old thing
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| That’s why I try to take my murders to the highest extreme
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| Make everybody scream, open up some spleens
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| Still hearin' the blood spillin'
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| It’s just a little dream that I be havin'
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| Man, I love killin'
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| (Brotha Lynch):
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| I got a hard dick for killin'
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| Southside villain
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| Protect your wife and your children
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| Feel my nature rise
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| (Sicx):
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| Not quite knowin' about this nigga?
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| Check your metro sections
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| Then cross reference murders by streets and dates
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| And how many times niggas' hoes' got raped
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| Mr. No Prints, the reason one time runs out of yellow tape
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| Fuckin' with a half deck, havin' niggas on hush
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| Smokin' a bowl that I re-dust
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| Open up your chest when I bust
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| So suit up, cuz it’s kill a nigga night
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| Ain’t no tellin' when Triple 6 gets to shootin' up
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| Movin' up your death date, with a Tre-8 special
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| It’s way too late to wrestle, as I nestle the sword stoppers
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| Split your ass open like pinata
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| Loadin' up like a Rotweiler
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| Lining up like Tyson snortin' cocaine powder
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| Pure dank sniffer, some like a lot of fluid, but I beg to differ
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| One wiff of that shit and I’m on cloud nine
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| Nigga, don’t trip if you ain’t got no nuts
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| Cuz I brought mine all buffed and shined
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| Untouchable when I’m fuckin' full of that nitrate wine
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| That’s when I bust on nineteen times and up
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| Cuz I’m nuts, goin' out my mind
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| Few, there’s no luck, you fucked for life, for sho'
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| Get your ass up on the floor
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| Tryin' to catch me at that lateral, slippin'
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| By my lonesome, but I’m on some, so who wants some?
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| Fresh out the gates, ain’t no room to make mistakes
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| Try to make my tapes, but I feel the ho hate
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| Tuck my dick inside in the O-8
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| Must of been the way the clip mate with the .45
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| No body, no case
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| Taste the meat, can’t wait to eat
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| Keep the street dirty, keep sturdy in your face
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| (TallCann G):
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| Ya’ll niggas don’t wanna feel my nature rise
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| Cuz I get dirty, shoot up shit with my Clint Eastwood
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| Leave your neighborhood lookin' like a ghost town, nigga
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| You standin' on dangerous grounds
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| When we come to Sac, better have your automatics on loaded status
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| Cuz me and my niggas be on the savage, leavin' no prints
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| Not givin' ya’ll niggas a inch, cuz I’mma lynch you
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| Fry your guts like Sizziline
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| Have your homie reminiscing' about your gangsta lean
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| Nigga, it ain’t no fuckin' with my clique
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| You can dial 911, but it ain’t no rescue
|
| Man, I hope the dear Lord bless you
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| Next to this nigga, ain’t no one’s nuts bigger
|
| Clutch your guts nigga, fuckin' with this Swartzanigga
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| Cuz I done lost it, taggin' niggas like a pit bull with rabies
|
| Gone off 40 ounces of O. E
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| Creepin' up on you, like doin' my Magnum P. I
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| Lazy Eye with Lil' Blacc Mile
|
| Smokin' a hard dick for killin' |