| This is the fruit of our hard work
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| The belief in the entrepreneur spirit
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| The new American dream
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| A toast
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| A toast to my family, life, till death
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| Uh, I wrote this sitting in the back
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| Of that triple black with the picnic tables
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| Twisting up a sack, my Cuban link cables prove I’m in the majors
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| A prime time playa', high quality rhymes
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| Earn these wages allowing me to make wagers double your life savings
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| We on yacht’s waving
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| Champagne cases, cocaine traces found
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| Seeping from the speakers when the bass kick
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| Hella baked dropping these tapes, raking cakes in
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| Millions my nigga, keep that under like the basement
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| Engine running on that spaceship
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| She sexy like a woman, speeding like a bullet, don’t pull up to it
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| I bet you want race it, I went to class with a craftsman who made this
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| Upper class shit, fresher than mince
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| At the event, I’m a king, sonning these rappers, I make you a prince
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| New Jet City, ya
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| Uh, to stand in front this money train doesn’t make sense
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| I never hustled with no lame’s, why would I begin?
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| I’m surviving in the game where many don’t win
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| But loser ain’t my name mane', that’s one of them
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| I’m gripping woodgrain, got a journal full of shrimp
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| Listening to Max B, wishing he was free
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| But he not, so we smoke a whole ounce for Gang Green
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| Jet Life motherfucker we the A-Team
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| No van that’s a Lamb, lift them wings
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| There’s a difference between a plan and a scheme
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| Make sure your crew all true to the same things
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| New Jet City |