| You might find me in the Century Club
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| Fresh kicks, fresh cut, pocket full of dubs
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| Box of Altoids for my paranoid niggas actin foul
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| Stop smokin if you can’t be proud
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| Adult star night, not another bar fight
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| Inglewood players actin right in the spotlight
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| Me I’m righter than invisible set
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| I’m visibly wet, slurrin and I’m lookin for my pet
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| I pass to the massa with her whip on her, ask her
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| If she sippin wit’cha bird, if she not we move past her
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| And I ain’t hatin I’m just diggin ya ass girl
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| Is that the collagen shot, is that what’cha momma got?
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| I’m so rugged, bullet wound in back
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| Of the axe handle blunt force trauma kinda tuggin
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| And I ain’t never been what the cat drug on
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| B-Real Quik’s to keep ya mean muggin
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| California clownin, bounce to sundown
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| In the moonlight groovin, trippin off the saloon fight
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| We Fandango, the next day hangover
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| Got me feelin like I hit a train with my Range Rover
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| Feel free to lose your mind, let’cha brain go
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| Fuck the tango do the Fandango
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| Triple step, right left, then you let’cha dame go
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| Spin around 'til you get a hangover
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| Take your doo rag off, let your brain grow
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| Fuck the tango do the Fandango
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| Triple step, right left, then you let’cha man go
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| Spin around 'til you get a hangover
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| Watch me climb out the whip with the bird on my hip
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| She wanna set it off in the club, don’t trip
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| We crack a bottle and all my fam take a sip
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| Any haters wanna pop at the lip, we come equipped
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| We get the paper and the savor the flavor
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| But never forget about the haters who constantly imitate us
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| Homey we creators and players and rhyme sayers
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| For layers of words, let me say it in terms that you can understand
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| So clearly, you feelin me fam?
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| She’s on the floor cause of my homey Quik man
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| And she hits the mall but you don’t really understand
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| Yeah I seen it before but now it’s gettin out of hand
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| Mami’s diggin for more, and she’s posin for the cam
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| Little beef got the dancefloor slammed
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| No tango, straight Fandango
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| Birds flock to us like heads to Kangols, c’mon
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| I’m a master in disguise, movin swiftly to the thighs
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| Move faster than me, then I recognize
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| That I ain’t really got nuttin to hide
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| But the bratwurst skinny girl second, fat girls first
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| And Compton is still on my mind
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| I remember when we used to get scared when they got behind us
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| One-time sayin they been tryin to find us
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| But they got the wrong niggas, never mind us
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| My tongue tumbles like I’m bumblebee stung
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| Rip out the stinger, you keep talkin shit I whip out the ringer
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| How many times does it have to end
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| Right before 12:00 A.M., why you packin a Slim Jim?
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| I gets down on the mic like I rode down on a bike
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| Road rash, skin peelin tonight
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| The club ain’t never crackin 'til the haters be gone
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| We need to build the eliminator hater light, and put it on 'em |