| It’s 6 O’clock, it’s volume 1
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| Yeah, Greg Street’s mixtape
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| Uh uh
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| I came up in the hood infested with teenage hustlers
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| Street grinders, paper chasin scrapin busters
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| By keepin dust up noses and caine homes; |
| pipes and cans
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| So they want they ride candy painted just like the man
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| That Veta tryin not to bite his hand
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| But they need em to keep em life from they stand
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| Every night praying for praying go as far as the ceiling
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| Got me feel like I’m (cursed) from this heart that I’m dealing
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| And all this liquor hoeing brother and goose-neckin
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| That I do but I don’t want to got me losing blessings
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| GOD said he’ll take the next two steps if I take the first (I did)
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| But in it to pick and sellin the spur
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| From under my feet, lost faith and jump in the street
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| Back to serve a rocks dying to the chrome in the heat
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| And running with G’s that take it to the block with 'em
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| Tellin me along with my greens up like pot nickel
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| Well, all I know
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| That I’d been down this road before
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| It ain’t the first time, won’t be the last
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| I gotta slow down cause I’m living too fast
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| It’s time to admit I need some help
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| Still living with my momma, can’t feed myself
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| Life ain’t about who straight, who real, who fake, and who gay
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| It’s about who pray
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| You can clock my consistent and endless
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| Efforts up uplift me
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| Trees and branches catch draft
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| When I’m choppin down a path-
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| To walk down, actually don’t even know how talk sound
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| I’m trying to stop the next step they drawing the chalk round
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| Matter-of-factually, I’ll stand alone with no entourage to back me
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| GOD is my every existence; |
| exhalation, exactly
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| I’ll pimp prophets so profounding labels don’t like contract me
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| I’m one of a kind; |
| they gotta find a satellite to contact me
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| Let us bow, I thank the Almighty GOD for right now
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| For the strictor, smile through the tribulation and trial
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| For sparing me when the devil was daring me
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| And scaring me, synonymous for preparing me
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| And to my family- the Dungeon Family
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| And ya’ll family-- we all family
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| And to me health and home and my son Kingston
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| My tongue is my gun, revolutions already begun
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| (Whaa)
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| Well, all I know
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| That I’d been down this road before
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| It ain’t the first time, won’t be the last
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| I gotta slow down cause I’m living too fast
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| It’s time to admit I need some help
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| Still living with my momma, can’t feed myself
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| Life ain’t about who straight, who real, who fake, and who gay
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| It’s about who pray
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| All I know is charge cards, cars, and clothes
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| Maan, it’s all for sure
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| And could go and when it’s gone- (you alone)
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| Runnin up yo cell phone callin GOD for hope
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| And who to say that day ain’t all awful close
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| And if you ballin playa, it’s only because GOD’s your coach
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| And it don’t bout the lies you hold, laws you broke
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| Thangs ya drink, dank and cigars you smoke
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| HE gonna forgive and that’s you; |
| now don’t get me wrong
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| I like LL, but GOD da G.O.A.T'
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| HE da greatest of all time, if I’m lying I’m blind
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| Can I get a Amen (Amen brother)
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| But we got to stop, we got to stop doin dirt
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| Coming to Church with a devil tucked in your purse
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| Sister Samantha from Atlanta, can’t even much finish her prayer,
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| Worried about what Sister Martha wear
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| All along worried bout what sister mom gonna wear
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| This ya boy or should they ride the martyr there
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| It don’t matter at least that’s the moral there
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| In Sunday service with a Bible lie defer the South
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| But GOD bless her, we here to thank GOD (hmmmm ahhh)
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| And that’s the step inside Holy Church thinkin
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| I said step inside his Holy Church thinkin
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| We all God’s Property, and not just Kirk Franklin
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| Well, all I know
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| That I’d been down this road before
|
| It ain’t the first time, won’t be the last
|
| I gotta slow down cause I’m living too fast
|
| It’s time to admit I need some help
|
| Still living with my momma, can’t feed myself
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| Life ain’t about who straight, who real, who fake, and who gay
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| It’s about who pray
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| Open my eyes, see the sunrise
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| Talkin about memories of G’s got my tongue tied
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| Put out some Henn for my friend, why the good die?
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| But til the end, I’m in the wind where the slug fly
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| Pray for my sins, I hope I find Heaven close to me |
| Try to be godly but these haters provokin me
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| Pull the shotty want them dead is what my heart say
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| My hard head make me learn shit the hard way
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| Dodging the fedz ain’t the easy way to live, care
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| But nigga do it everyday to make a meal stack
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| Your phone tapped, under surveillance, secretly indicted
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| Being watched daily, livin shady just to drive a Merdede
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| And fucking ladies, who making babies used against you
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| Your enemy be the main nigga you be a friend too
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| How can begin to explain the pain
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| Can you stay in the rain
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| Used to be a simple thing, but the game done changed
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| Now slanging caine is a lifestyle
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| Risking your freedom just to ball for a short while
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| Gettin buckwild on the street up on Westside
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| Downtown Atlanta, while we ride some of the best die
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| From cocking hammers of these Tec-9s and .45s
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| Excuse my grammar; |
| but it’s fucked up how time fly
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| It seem like yesterday we play until our days was nights
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| And yesterday, I just put flowers at his gravesite and that ain’t right
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| All I know
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| Is I’d been down this road before
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| This ain’t the first time, won’t be the last
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| I gotta slow down cause I’m living too fast
|
| It’s time to admit I need some help
|
| Still living with my momma, can’t feed myself
|
| Life ain’t about who straight, who real, who fake, and who gay
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| It’s about who pray |