| Too much ground to cover
|
| I don’t know where to start
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| Can’t find the words to tell you
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| I don’t know where to start
|
| What ya gonna do when them boys come
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| Knocking at your front door
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| And they want war? |
| Oh shit!
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| He ain’t a rapper, he’ll kill you
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| My life
|
| Niggas just need to chill
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| Tryin' to live my life
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| But niggas wanna see me killed
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| It was cold on that corner
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| Lot of my niggas gone on that corner
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| Now it’s floor seats, ringside by the ropes
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| Floor seats, playoffs by the coach
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| I know you hear me on your radio
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| I know you watch me in the video
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| Feds ain’t watchin, niggas tellin'
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| That’s why I’m Gucci, deal with Gucci
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| I’m ridin' clean, look at me
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| Tee the blur ova lock, wicked block
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| I’m drinkin' blue down for the pain
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| But fuck what you say, you’s a lame
|
| So we’ll sit here in the silence
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| And watch the sun go down
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| And wonder if we’ll ever
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| Meet again on higher ground
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| Lookouts on the corners, knockers on the aves
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| Snitches in the window, hoes sucking, giving up the info
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| Tryna escape thru that brown water
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| Play king till they gems get snatched outta they crowns
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| And what beef? |
| Those are cow’s organs
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| It ain’t no problem, cuz if it was, he wouldn’t be around walking
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| And fuck holding me up, I ain’t no picket sign
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| My closest nigga crossed me like the Mason-Dixon line
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| Real nigga, we on different times
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| Already left these fuck niggas twice, waiting on them at the finish line
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| Clouds dark, shades even darker
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| That quick you get stripped outta yo life, Mary Hartman |