| The streets was waitin'
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| here I am, a beast awakened
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| in a Beamer Station Wagon with massive gleamin’bracelets
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| after years of bein’patient
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| sheddin’tears and beatin’cases
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| I’m ready for whatever yo (Mega!)
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| no more to say
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| words can’t explain like Rich Porters grave
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| this is a ghetto monument, my confidence is more apparent
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| the mind like a Nine automatic
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| graceful yet capable of causin’damage
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| I’m too ill, lyrically I feel I’m too real
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| dough or die, either way I do deals
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| I’m gifted, my only fear is death or prison
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| what other lyricist conveys such sincereness?
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| I been through the ghetto life and drug concealings
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| fearless, and betrayal with trust is given
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| now I deal with a few, I don’t fuck with niggas
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| it’s not arrogance, it’s I’m-not-havin'it
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| niggas act like they was sendin’me packages
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| when I was upstate gainin’weight and lackin’friends
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| think about it, I don’t talk about it, I be about it I get money and I still be in the Projects
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| fuck rap, nigga like me is eatin’regardless
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| even during the drout I had a Ki in the closet
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| connects was tellin’me I ain’t need a deposit
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| they were seein’the progress on my net, smashin’niggas
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| I was pitchin', you was catchin’feelings
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| like D’s when they seen they couldn’t catch my niggas
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| 41st side, what, we had cracks in the building
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| the 4−5, Infra red Mac and the Sterling
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| it was all for the cause except my dogs got careless
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| I suppose those who ain’t like us feared us the life we chose inspired me to write these poems
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| I’m takin’mine like the Rikers phone
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| The Realness…
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| my niggas waitin’for this. |
| pump this on the corner.
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| pump this in ya ride. |
| pump this in ya jail cell.
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| the essence of a hustler my nigga. |
| what. |
| Mega |