| You can live true baby, you can live trife
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| Whatever way you chose you got to leave your life
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| Aiyyo you’re running out of time, and you bout to cross
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| The finish line, the finish line
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| (repeat Chorus)
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| Verse One: Busta Rhymes
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| And, yo! |
| I can’t afford to waste a second
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| Steppin with my eyes on niggaz checkin on my weapons
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| Every millisecond, motherfuckers say they true to this
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| But when they grab the microphone they shit sound like stupidness
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| I know that you can’t handle when I flip from other angles now
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| Feel my hot wax, burning from my melting candles
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| You can’t take the heat, so you switch from boots to wearing sandals
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| This is for example! |
| Shit will make a nigga curse
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| When worse comes to worse, you be the first to disperse now
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| We don’t BELIEVE your man was living like that
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| Hoping to find that nigga see exactly where his heart was at It’s a damn shame how Son know your style, know your name
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| Watch how he pull your file, make you wish you never fuckin came NOW
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| Even the hardest motherfucker has his final day
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| So kill that shit you talkin, and be about your fuckin way
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| Verse Two: Busta Rhymes
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| Yo, everyday I see you on the block smoking
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| With a bunch of niggaz scoping on how they can split you WIDE open
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| You don’t even know what’s going on up in your circle
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| Awful murder niggaz itch to leave you black blue and purple
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| Ahh, your man came to put you on and tried to make you bleed
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| Hit you with some shit that left you flippin mad in disbelief
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| You just can’t believe that niggaz that you smoke with is on it
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| And the way they rass they really got to bust yo’shit!
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| Thought your man was joking, paid no attention to the situation
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| Got with your crew and just continued smoking
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| Now your man sit and watch you panic
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| In any other situation you’d be fronting like you gigantic
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| I guess all that fronting is your main talent
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| It’s apparent, he can see right through you like you transparent
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| Hah, aiyyo you need to watch your back you running out of time
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| Watch your step, cuz you only inches from the finish line
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| Verse Three: Busta Rhymes
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| Now, there’s about a million motherfuckers on your trail
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| Quick to bust your shit for every single time your words failed
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| I’m watchin all the moves you makin fuck the speculatin
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| Super-bitch nigga you just be fakin if I’m not mistakin
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| Every move you fake you dig your grave a little deeper
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| Come around me with that shit I’ma flip it to my brother’s keeper
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| Listen to this: overstress my emphasis
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| I insist to fix and bring the noise as long as I exist
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| Now you walk around the streets with all that shit you speak
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| And step inside the club just to receive the illest ass beating
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| HOO! |
| Take a look around you get no type of sympathy
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| Impatiently, I sit and watch you die in your own iniquity
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| Hah, now you out dead and stinkin, and your eyes are no longer blinkin
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| Time caught up quick, with your little BITCH way of thinkin
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| Ahh, watch you diminish, while your niggaz have to put a finish
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| On your misleading false image
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| Word is bond, bond is life
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| You shall be willing to give your life
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| Before your words shall fail
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| All those who out there frontin, misleading they peoples
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| Actin other than they really are
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| It will catch up to you player, word is bond
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| So that’s, specifically, to all those fake motherfuckers
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| Living out here on that bullshit
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| Trying to act like they know what the fuck’s going on |