| I rolled you up like my Rizla
|
| Cut you up, with my scissors
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| You wanna get us — yeah, the venom spitters
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| Your style’s trash: don’t litter
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| You got the jitters the hardhitters
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| No quitters your soul quivers
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| When you see the gats blazin, get out the street now
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| There ain’t no use for you beggin to turn the heat down
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| You label me coldblooded
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| You wanna warm me up with hot lead the gat thudded
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| You can’t cut it
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| You wack, but it’s — no use your mouth shut it
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| Shootin arrows diamond-studded, and still budded
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| You got to love it, you better chase the paper all day
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| So you can walk down the long platinum hallway
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| But now the fools are minutemade;
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| They get played for a minute
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| Then played out they never get back in it
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| Gun park I bring chalk for your body outlined on the floor
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| You got hit by the 4−4!
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| Chorus: B-Real
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| You’re in the game called life, son — how you’re livin it
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| Street corner kids growin up blowin up
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| You chase dreams you want the highlife, with the skylights
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| But in the end your soul’s lost, you lost the shine right
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| Never turn your back ever, on niggas true to you
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| Stand alone for the cheddar — and they’ll be through with you
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| The highlife; |
| yeah, the highlife
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| The highlife; |
| yeah, the highlife
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| You gotta hang out with B. Reezy, and take it easy
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| It’s gettin greasy, I had to learn how to beat me
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| That’s when you go for dolo, and get your meal ticket
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| And still kick it hardcore I’m runnin real with it
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| Niggas getting softcore, the people want more
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| Hardcore shit that’s why I give them an encore
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| Curtains opened, you see the people applaud feelin it
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| You can’t figure out the formula so you’re stealin it
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| Can’t stand unoriginal cats with minimal
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| Skills that’s criminal — you fake bitches!
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| You’re lookin for riches, in the wrong places
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| The faces of death look you in the eye cut off your breath
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| When you fall feel your knees shatter
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| The bones breakin with your weak blatter
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| Pissin on yourself it don’t matter
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| Dead weight, the bed waits for you on the set date
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| Dreams gone instead fate didn’t hesitate
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| To put you away, close the gates now you’re locked out
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| Your life: cable, with all the porn channels blocked out (damn!)
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| What you good for? |
| Nothin, so be gone suckers
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| Have a nice trip see you motherfuckers!
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| I live for the highlife, get my mind right
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| Fuck the fame, the game and the limelights
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| Fools that be out there tryin to duplicate
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| But they can’t match the aura, can’t impersonate
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| See the first things that comes to pass, is the blast
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| Of the Cypress Hill weed funk blazin up a path
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| You can’t help, but inhale and get strong
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| You need that good shit all up in your lungs
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| I live fast, and keep energy in motion
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| Jah bless, so I feel I been chosen
|
| But I know, (?) of he who conquers
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| You gotta come strong and sound off like thunder
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| I check myself and make sure I’m comin real tight
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| Rhyme for my fam, the G’s and the highlife
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| The highlife — hah, hah
|
| The highlife yeah |