| Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream
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| Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters
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| Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' the ganja smoke
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| Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke
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| Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers
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| I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars
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| Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers
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| Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper
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| Cristal sipper, I’ve been a willy for a while nigga
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| 'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos
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| Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls
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| East coast, West coast, fiends overdose
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| 'Gruff get the cream with my team and I’m ghost
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| This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV
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| Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy
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| Since 14, I sold morphine for more green
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| Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawstring
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| And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers
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| And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina
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| Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters
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| Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba
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| For a while, yo; |
| pump the vowel so I can pile dough
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| Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo'
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| Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego
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| With yayo so I can ship it out whenever I say so
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| Yo! |
| Makin' this money is the American Dream
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| East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean
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| Whether it’s Uptown, Downtown; |
| you pick the scene
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| You gots to get your own scheme
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| We ain’t splittin' this cream
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| Yo! |
| I’mma run hysterically, till they bury me
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| Count numerically, hills of Beverly
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| More grands than cherokee; |
| president like Eric B., and Rakim
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| Drug game, I’m top ten; |
| locked in? |
| Right now its not an option
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| And those who creep got the Mac in the heat
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| They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat
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| And now they got this daddy raggin'
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| Last year, had me saggin', wasn’t ready
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| When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon
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| But ain’t nobody out here stoppin' love
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| Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub'
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| So all the fame without the fortune; |
| goddamn, you wrong
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| Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon
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| Yo! |
| I leave you dazed and froze
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| With all kinds of amazing flows
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| Money surrounded I counted
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| While bathing with Asian hoes
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| Back home niggas is after me
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| I’m back to sea, sippin' daquiris
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| Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me
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| From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks
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| Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks
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| Now that Bloods play the chub
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| All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby
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| Behind my back they say my baby’s ugly
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| Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps
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| Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets
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| Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan
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| Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs
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| Check it! |
| To be seen clean in the mean Beam
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| Is every team’s dream; |
| Big L’s a cream fiend
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| With more green than Springsteen
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| You know I’m crazy quick to smack a groupie
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| I’m known to mack a hoochie
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| Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!)
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| Harlem kids is known for felonies
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| And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's
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| GS3's, and puffin' trees
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| These G’s breeze while DTs
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| Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese
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| And keep a pocket full of centuries
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| Ayo, I’m set for the rest of my life
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| Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife
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| I stuck my tool to his brain, said «act a fool and get slain»
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| Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game
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| Yea What? |
| Harlem on the Rise
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| BloodShed, Killa Kam
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| Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie
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| My Man man Mase, the Bad Boy
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| Uptown, McGruff
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| Big L, 139, NFL, 140 |