| III’m puffin, I never get enough in
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| I never cooked coke up on the stove top but I’m stuffin'
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| These nuts up in the guts of a slut no doubt
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| But its trapped inside a rubber should I flush that ho out
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| To use again, well it depends, do I have another one
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| I cuss for fun, too cool to have to bust a gun
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| I don’t have to duck and run, I could fuck a bum up quick
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| But thats some tenth grade shit
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| And its all about chillin', smilin', laughin'
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| So you know I’m willin', hollerin' and I’m grabbin'
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| At a freak before I leave, best believe I’m weeded
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| You rollin' that billy jean, bitch beat it
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| And you see that we the niggas who smoke the most
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| People propose a toast, from coast to coast
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| But it don’t really matter who’s the highest
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| If it ain’t dope, there’s no hope they ain’t gone buy it
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| Quarter tank of gas in my 71 double S
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| Quarter bag, mostly shake, but this will have to do I guess
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| GPS loaded with the coordinates
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| Of this bitch crib to receive love and nourishment
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| In the form of joints rolled, drinks poured
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| Her in nothin' but a robe, playin her role
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| I saw «The Mack» when I was only 11 years old
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| And I swore, to never be a simp for a ho
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| Approached the closed door, it cracked open before my eyes
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| Shorty wit a doobie of her own, I am not surprised
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| Cuz I don’t kick it on the low, wit no bitch that don’t get high
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| Wrap me a to-go plate and ask if I want her to drive
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| Cuz I got far too much on my mind
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| Industrial size gears, I’m caught in the grind
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| At yo grandma house
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| Plastic cover the couch
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| Before I sit down
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| She pressurin' me for smellin' like a pound |