| She had to confess that I am the best
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| That I am, that I am, that I am the best
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| Confess, confess
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| She had to confess that I am the best
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| Wa da da dang, wa da da da da dang
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| Step into the party with Baccardi in my veins
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| I knock her dang, her body I gotta bang
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| Like it was a 9 mm that I aim
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| Not a train, I prolly forgot her name
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| Arrive with the gang, the posse that I claim
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| Play Monopoly games, profiting off pain
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| Hear the boppin' and go hop in her Range
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| The best at it according to sex addicts
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| Made her wet then made a mess out of fresh fabrics
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| Uh she 'bout to cum, I should just let her
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| Hon' it doesn’t get better than this six letter
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| Stop the blood clot lying, no, him no lying
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| When I gave it to her she swore that she saw Zion (Lawd of mercy)
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| Hit it hard yeah I gave her all iron
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| Boom, more fire, I torch your whole attire
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| I scorch writers at liquor store cyphers
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| The poor righteous, teach you with arthritis
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| Patois of a rap star, I’m mac hard
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| Bag bitches in the back yard and dash off
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| Treat me like a flask cause they swallowing Fashawn
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| Aaw, why did I have to go and attack y’all
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| Hey, wa da da dang, a whole lotta dollars they gain
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| Whole lotta shotters with bottles and models we gotta bring
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| Ja bless the child who can hold his own, no
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| Emotion from the homie cosy in the throne
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| Who got it sown
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| Poems I’m penning, prone to pitching
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| Product of the zone I entered
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| I’m over the limit, scolding my critics
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| Forget a title you couldn’t hold my attention
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| Oh did I mention, took control of the imprint
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| Strolling, limping, with the soul of a pimp is
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| Archbishop meets Bart Simpson, starts kissing
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| Shawn throws bombs from long distance
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| Too many magazine to let off, my palms itching
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| Either I’m insane or you not in my lane
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| Why do I gotta be modest I’m bout to body the game |