| You don’t know just what your soul does
|
| When there’s no love and you sold drugs
|
| On the first of the month like Bone Thugs
|
| And the damn funds just won’t budge
|
| And you live right where the crime was and the nines bust
|
| You tryna shine 'cause the grinds on your mind
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| Sold nickel and dime without doing time. |
| Don’t mind us!
|
| Still get computer’s 'putin
|
| Nuisance, don’t care 'bout your two cents
|
| You vexed, you’ll never get the blueprint
|
| Switch siders, hopping a new fence
|
| Relax before I relapse, these facts
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| Squeeze that three caps where you eat at
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| What you call feedback, bro, I don’t need that
|
| Believe that, go home with your kneecaps
|
| Blowing on Cheech & Chong, them sweet ass chron'
|
| To each his own, make media leaches leave alone
|
| Fuck sticks and stones, get beat to bones
|
| You reach for phones, I reach for chrome
|
| Then lie when gunshots reach your dome
|
| Think these is poems? |
| You’ve seen all the money and cars
|
| You’d think that Meech was home
|
| Monogamy, nah, possibly do pornography
|
| Listen to my philosophy, Cam’s autobiography
|
| Outside on Lennox Ave with the coke and the crack
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| And the pen and the pad with the MAC in the back of the 'lac
|
| While I’m racking on racks, you looking at endless swag
|
| From Cassius Clay to bouncin' yay
|
| In the fastest way, put the gas away
|
| 'Cause all you gon' hear is, «What's his name died…»
|
| «What's his name died?» |
| he done passed away!
|
| Pull out the arms, body armor on
|
| Dead to a farm by a bag of hay, you a castaway
|
| Sunday through saturday, St. Patrick’s Day
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| Mother’s Day, any other day, Labor Day, Father day
|
| Your death date on your death certificate
|
| Is our day, that’s what I would say
|
| I beg your pardon, Vanessa Carlton
|
| Yeah, we a thousand miles away
|
| At the ballet, wearing Balleys
|
| That’s out of date, that’s our debate
|
| What you wanna eat baby, trout? |
| Steak?
|
| Steak, potatoes? |
| How about baked?
|
| Inner city, out of state
|
| I want dessert, that pound of cake
|
| You sounded safe, from down the base
|
| We’ll surround your place with a pound of tape
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| Put around your waist, then bound your face
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| Legs and arms, you down to race?
|
| (Laughter) |