| It’s fuckin ackrite
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| Question is — can I get some? |
| Know what I’m saying?
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| Ack-rite, bitch
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| When I see you in the spot, you just act right, you know what I’m saying?
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| When I yank you by the fuckin' arm
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| Don’t be looking at a nigga crazy
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| Just give up the digits and be the fuck out, you know what I’m saying?
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| Let me break it down for y’all
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| It was just one of those days
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| When I wanted to catch sunrays
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| It`s fun to gitt blunted on a Sunday afternoon
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| Nigga Bathed & got groomed, grabbed the gat for misbehavors
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| And the chocolate flavored boom, lost in hip-hop tunes
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| Zoom-zoom like the Commodores
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| Wonder will we have drama or, end up clowning whores
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| Round up four good-to-go girls
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| Like them Barbary Coast girls, riding shotgun, baby
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| I be postin all-world in the ride
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| Sipping 151 done gave me too much pride to back down
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| Soon as we get to The Beach I’mma put my fuckin mack down
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| I’m playin lead, not the background
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| It’s time to put Bronson on the map now
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| Walk with my hand on my Johnson, crack a smile
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| Cuties peep my style, if I don’t get some ackrite
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| I’mma have to ack-wild
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| Blunt in my left hand, drink in my right
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| Strap by my waistline, cause niggas don’t fight
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| Sucker free for life, so you better think twice
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| (Aight? And a give a nig' some ackrite)
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| I’m the type of nigga playa-haters don’t like
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| Snatchin' up your honey for some late night hype
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| And snobby-ass bitches get slapped out of spite
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| (Aight? So give a nig' some ackrite, right)
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| Uhhhhh. |
| drink kicking in, I’m stimulated
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| For those that don’t know big words: I’m FUCKIN FADED
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| Eighty-three degrees, ease to a shaded spot
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| Our first spot was cool till some gangsters made it hot
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| Now we plot and pose
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| Plus we watchin hoes, with lots of flesh exposed
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| Getting swarmed by those type of niggas
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| With no game but brown-nose
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| So I impose only like pros can
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| «Yo, is this your man?» |
| «No.»
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| Grab the bitch’s hand, «I'm Hittman.»
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| Bling! |
| Gold chain gleam
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| «You're very eligible for my summer league team.»
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| Maybe too extreme cause the sister got steamed
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| Then Miss Thing tried to scream on my brethren
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| I got mad, spit phlegm on the name
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| Stefan, tattooed on her arm
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| Ho you ain’t the bomb, must be a dyke
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| Gitcho' lips swoll, or give a nig' some ackrite
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| Blunt in my left hand, drink in my right
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| Strap by my waistline, cause niggas don’t fight
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| Sucker free for life, so you better think twice
|
| (And a give a nig' some ackrite)
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| I’m the type of nigga playa-haters don’t like
|
| Snatchin' up your honey for some late night hype
|
| And snobby-ass bitches get slapped out of spite
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| (So give a nig' some ackrite, right)
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| Fronting on the ack-rite, causing me to act up
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| Good Samaritans save that ho from getting slapped up
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| My homies crack up at the scene I made
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| Yo my actions ain’t serene when a nigga’s on fade
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| If it wasn’t for the one-time brigade
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| I woulda sprayed at the hooker tramp
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| As cops parade I’m afraid it’s time to break camp
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| Make tracks, where else can we go to take hoes
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| From fake macks? |
| Aiyyo, chase them girls
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| In that black Maxima, the passenger, almost fractured her
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| Neckbone, looking back at us
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| Plus, they on the dick cause the Caddy’s plush
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| They blush, I bumrush the huss, with the largest crush
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| Try to swing an ep tonight so I don’t have to keep in touch
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| Keep it on hush without the tippin`
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| Macking interrupted by some niggas set-tripping
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| Clip in the strap, I showed these niggas how to act |