| Pain is love, that’s what this nigga told me
|
| I keep washin' my face with blunts and O. E
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| Mix coke with dust, still can hold me
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| What made ya muthafuckas think you control me?
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| Staten Island been wildin', so Osama’s nothing
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| And my niggas out in Brooklyn said Saddam was frontin'
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| Gotta squad, what you think, it ain’t no guns or something?
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| Picture Me Rollin', holdin' less than a one or somethin'
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| You fake faggots, yeah we got that big automatic
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| Like, Bruce Willis and the Jackal type, yeah, right
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| You wanna see it? |
| Then get on my nerves
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| Oh you live, and I’m gettin' money spit on my curb
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| In the hood where it get no harder, only tougher
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| Crack fiends suffer, baby moms, baby brother
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| Hustlin', still forty off a hundred packs
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| I’d rather lounge in the back of the bar
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| Me and my dog throw crack in the jar
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| Listen to this rap star, while I sit back in the car
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| And I told ya’ll niggas how the Staten rock
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| We don’t, trick on chicks, yo we clap them shots
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| You get caught if you ask a lot, like you don’t know
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| And where you at, then ya ass is got
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| Pain is love, that’s what this nigga told me
|
| I keep washin' my face with blunts and O. E
|
| Mix coke with dust, still can hold me
|
| What made ya muthafuckas think you control me?
|
| We bringin' back the Twin Towers, 20−0-3, crack game electronic
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| Conceived with slow jams by The Delfonics
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| At a level that you should of been years ago
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| Responsible usually for coke traffic, usually for broken bone tragic
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| Rest in peace, to Mayor Guliani’s term
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| They say I’m wrong, shit
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| I’m try’nna see 26, with my daughters at the Emmy Awards
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| All around the ball glowin', they got the weed flow droughted
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| Or maybe niggas in the hood just ain’t 'bout it
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| Talkin' Hercules, and ain’t nothin' but dog food
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| Staten Island, New York City drools
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| Crazy glue on my fingerprints
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| Name on the concrete of my hood, what’s really good?
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| Vendetta’s with these rap stars
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| Frontin' like this crime and the pet is they cars
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| Believe I was God in my last life
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| What if it was your knife? |
| What if they was your gloves, nigga.
|
| Pain is love, that’s what this nigga told me
|
| I keep washin' my face with blunts and O. E
|
| Mix coke with dust, still can hold me
|
| What made ya muthafuckas think you control me?
|
| Aiyo, I came into this game on some real love shit
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| And ya’ll bitch ass niggas, ya’ll wanted me to quit
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| Because the way I dress ill and the way that I spit
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| But I ain’t never gon' stop, droppin' these joints
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| And ya’ll fake ass niggas, ya’ll ain’t gettin' no points
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| Don’t try to sabotage me, cuz you just can’t do it
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| You had me in the Square, last year, but you blew it
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| Big Donna from the group home, that’s my word
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| Splash shots at your whip, splash shots at your bird
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| Leave your brains and your Gucci boots up on the curb
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| Pillage for life, Allah’s will be the most superb
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| Smoke weed with the cannon, smoke the herb
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| So bow down, all you crab ass clowns you can’t live
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| My gun’s on empty, but it’s more shots to give
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| I pop you like a slave cop, run in your crib
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| Throw darts at your wife, throw darts at your kid
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| Leave your house flooded with hits like O.J. |
| did
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| Escapin' the crime scene and you love how I slid
|
| Pain is love, that’s what this nigga told me
|
| I keep washin' my face with blunts and O. E
|
| Mix coke with dust, still can hold me
|
| What made ya muthafuckas think you control me? |