| Where the hoes at, where the foes at
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| Where the smoke at, nigga roll that
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| Hoes shut your motherfucking mouth and get naked
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| Since they opened up the shop, you know we gone wreck it
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| See I hear they talking down and the boys spreading rumors
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| National club hoppers, and all you consumers
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| Who keep em all body rocking from state to state
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| Cause the real gone be real and the fake gone be fake
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| So I’ma, regulate and I’mma squash the chat
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| Draw low in my fo' door Escalade or Cadillac
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| Looseless ain’t shit, think it’s time I shut em
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| No pros ain’t shit, I think it’s time I bug em
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| Up to the Californ' bring all the dollars home
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| Southside represent, still sitting on chrome
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| So what’s wrong, you ain’t think I could do it again
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| I’m off the heezy, fa sheezy number one top ten
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| I’m on fire, can’t sleep on the E
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| Everyday Street Gangsta that’s E.S.G
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| And I’m swanging and banging
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| Thinking throwed, fifty shine for sho'
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| Put your money on us, sticky green and stuff
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| Number one on hit singles ten weeks cause that’s us
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| This for the ballas, young shot callas
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| Nineteen inch blades on the Impalas
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| Call us to get laid tonight
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| I got sweets rolled tight, I got sprayed by ice
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| I hit the hiiiighway, rolling my waaay
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| You’re my mofos, raise up the window, blaze up the indo
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| Now uh, what up whodie, what up soldier
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| How you like us now Wreckshop taking over
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| Put it in your face yeah we some real true playas
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| If you feel us your some killas throw your rollies in the air
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| The big don figga’s back, I’m back on track
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| I got a four in a sack tell me where them hoes at
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| 7−1 Tre that’s my area code
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| We sipping serve, flipping birds never riding on the road
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| Bo' guarding the boulevard riding regulars on a one way
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| Car wash we squash on a Sunday
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| Ain’t plexing in Texas, gripping grain respected
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| Riding Lacs or Lexus, south man we exit
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| Flipping more cream means, green by the hour
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| Sipping codeine leaning like an Eiffel Tower
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| Got boppers and shoppers, car hoppers and choppers
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| Trunk poppers, Glock cockers, block lockers can’t stop us
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| Drop the top and I roll, sticky green and I’m smoking
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| Hitting poppa doser, feticcini and copeling
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| Some roof wide open, watch the good game flip
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| As the Texas freak nick showing wood grain strip
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| If you trip on a dip, I got a clip for the jack
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| So tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me where the hoes at |