| Yeah, nigga!
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| Aiyo, what up man? |
| This is all BB right here
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| Word, yo, we just slid in from the back door
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| It’s Code: Red, nigga, level four, ya’ll know what it is, man
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| I told ya’ll, huh? |
| I didn’t? |
| Watch this one, though (Goon Squad!)
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| Aiyo, I know niggas that get dusted and wild out
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| They foul out, talk to the cops and play they style out
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| Me? |
| I’m real hood, and them niggas that was fakin' before
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| I take they jaws, cuz Lord, I wish they would
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| Yes, Lord, it’s all good, you know I hustle
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| In the tanktop with no muscle, all in the hood
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| And roll dice by the elevator, and post up
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| And wait there, if he comin' in, dog, gotta wait til later
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| I squeeze off, ease off from the nine milly
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| And my niggas be like, «Watch how he whine, Billy!»
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| And for the record, these niggas gotta come kill me
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| Where I’m at, in the Hill, by the Ooh, silly
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| Danger, danger, ain’t nothin' change but space
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| Ask Space and Daxe, in how they manage
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| And how I do damage, fuck takin' flicks for cameras
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| You know them bandanas, run with them clip bananas
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| I’m on the hunt for the big dough to stick Santana
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| Plus these labels exec’s come in a calm manner
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| N.S.Beezy, I stay easy
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| Fuck what ya’ll niggas is talkin', I’m off the heezy
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| In the hood, you get fake hugs and cold stares
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| Heat holdin' niggas with the apple colored wears
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| Try’nna get them greens, premature niggas get knocked out and dope fiend
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| Niggas stand up, Staten Island, rip you and ya mans up
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| Hands up, yeah, kid, it’s the real
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| Rough necks on this side, cats makin' a deal
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| Coke in the bill, weapons appeal, do what ya feel
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| From Park Hill to Jungle Nillz
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| So much that we gotta pay the bills
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| Give us the cream or get killed…
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| Goon Squad!
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| Aiyo, my jewels so chunky, I got a brass monkey
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| With a, rock in his ear, two chips in his tooth
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| No cuff', I throw the ol' joint off the roof
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| It’s a new year, I’m layin' new words in the booth
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| Fuck «The Truth», I’m «The Reason» why rap needs to +change+
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| The same four quarters in +the game+, I got change
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| Nickles and dimes, rhymes, styles of Beneen
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| See, Cash Rules Everything, lord, I need C.R.E.A.M
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| Gotta team that could elbow out the meat cooler
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| I’m a hustler, I could sell a brick to a jeweler
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| Off your front porch, g off ya back deck
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| This me, Lounge and the team, we dishin' up the projects
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| We killas as sharp as knives
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| Work for hire, special key be the paralyzer
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| Got my own killa slang and dancers
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| Certain hammers for certain circumstances
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| These the roads of Allah’s deed, knawhatimean?
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| I took the advances and bulletproofed the Suburbans
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| No handouts, stay earnin' mine
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| The hood hate to see a nigga shine and now I know
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| That a ho gon' always be a ho
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| And 23's can’t fit on a '98 Tahoe
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| And ain’t no superstars comin' off Apollo
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| The chicks around the way frontin' with tongue rings, don’t swallow
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| My mind was raped as a child, Rocky could of never beat Apollo
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| The feds could of never caught 'Cino
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| P. Diddy would of never fell for a bird like J. Lo, power to the peso, nigga! |