| Showing up, showing out, making my presence known
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| Rolling up, smoking out, in a perfect fucking zone
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| Fast laning and slumming, you can hear this hustler coming
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| 'Round the block with hell knock, cutting up, stunting
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| Middle finger out the sun roof, buckled up, not loose
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| Ready to catch a fade, ready to put up my fucking dukes
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| Read to squeeze and make a neck, like this bottle of Grey Goose
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| I ain’t never cashed a check, just street nigga loot
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| Mannishness, foolery, rocking hella jewelry
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| Local superstar, you oughta see my car
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| Outta sight, up to par, came a long way hecka far
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| And I owe it to my triple beam and my pickle jar
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| There’s macking in my DNA, make a bitch pay what she weight
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| Everyday a holiday, born and raised up in the yay
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| A polished young brother, never been a sucker
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| A sharp hustler, flyer than a crop duster
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| We out here grittin 'bout gudda it’s like a holiday
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| Standing out on the steps where my mama stay
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| Walking right up to the car, let’s keep it coming
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| We out here slummin'
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| Trapping and checking my traps
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| Collecting and counting my racks
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| Steadily shooting craps, toting and packing gats
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| At the party double fisted, at the bar gettin' hella twisted
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| See that bitch right there? |
| That’s the homie bitch
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| But he don’t know I’m hitting it
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| Little gutter chick, can’t get enough of it
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| Strung out on my dick, she like to spit on it
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| Act classy but really a freak nasty
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| She like for me to nut on her cavity
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| It’s game involved, I’m a damn fool
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| I’m the nigga, a fixture, my nigga I’m the dude
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| I’ve never been a big tipper I can be hella rude
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| Only thing I tip is my liquor and my brew
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| Boss status, smoking cabbage, living lavish, extra mannish
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| Profit flipping, flipping profit
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| Louis sipping, hustle-holic |