| Yeah
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| I got a fully loaded cartridge and thoughts and enemies
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| Rhymes razor sharp, that’s that rawkus energy
|
| My heart pump Hennessy
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| Veins pump Don Julio, rock rubies
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| Assorted color stones in the jewelry
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| Picture that
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| A nigga delegatin' with diplomats
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| Used to pitch nickel sacks
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| Now I can shit a stack
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| Im on it
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| Defecatin' on your rap performers
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| Appeal, more the Mass
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| And Fash passed enormous
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| I don’t get excited, I get ignited
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| Burn like a brush fire when I write it
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| Barb-wire for those bitin'
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| Titan in the ring, Tyson when I swing
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| Python, when the mic’s on, I strike harm
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| Madre know I’ma drug dealer uh
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| Tecate sippin, my mug’s rippin
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| Compadre stealin', the slug peelin'
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| Nonsense, crip’n & blood spillage in the village
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| No remorse shown, no love given, nigga
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| No, you don’t know how much trouble you in
|
| No, they just hustle, I hustle to win
|
| Don’t say I’m done, just say I’ve done it again
|
| Homie
|
| If it ain’t the shells, its the gazelles
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| If I’m not still in a cell, I’m out on bail
|
| Dirty, is what’s under my nails, off the rail
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| Young homie will fuck up a scale, he hustle well
|
| Count kale off of sellin' broccoli, never fail
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| Cocky, you can tell, cock is 2XL
|
| Block had to bail
|
| Look like, I just ate rock lobster
|
| All these shells, shocked, you lookin pale
|
| Why? |
| Cause I prevailed, a hassa for the nail
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| You hot huh? |
| Is it cause yo pockets lookin frail?
|
| Memoirs of a Mobsta with a tale
|
| Wrote pop like im Pharrell
|
| Pop pop, two rappers fail
|
| I once was a poster boy for poverty
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| Until I hit the lottery
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| 'Po, something you gotta see
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| You niggas will never figure me out
|
| I figured that, figures is what this shit is about
|
| Motha fucka!
|
| No, you don’t know how much trouble you in
|
| No, they just hustle, I hustle to win
|
| Don’t say I’m done, just say I’ve done it again |