| Aiyo… aiyo, what up, yo
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| What up, ya’ll, this that Pretty Toney shit
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| Aiyo, I know there’s a lot of hoods and shit out there
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| A lot of niggas done got bodied
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| A lot of niggas done got robbed and shit
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| You know what I mean? |
| We love a lot of things in the hood
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| But time goes on… and if we don’t change a lot of shit
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| Shit always gonna be this way, and that’s a muthafuckin' fact!
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| True gangsta shit, ya’ll, yo, yo, yo
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| When ya’ll turn my mic up in here, bareback shit
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| Knowhatimean? |
| Tired of ya’ll muthafuckas and shit
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| One-two, fuck around and clobber one of ya’ll muthafuckas, man
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| Yo Spidey, put that reverb shit, on
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| Come on… «Can you feel it? |
| Can you feel it?» |
| Yeah
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| «Can you feel it…» Let’s go, fuck it…
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| Live from Staten Island where the gangsters kill
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| Only place on the map that got the 30 dollar bill
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| And we front like we got millions
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| Our specialty is how we willie, niggas—that's how Buck brought the building
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| And the police is pussy, they protect and serve
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| They connect with baseheads then they frisk our birds
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| Smack DVDs, blowin' herb
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| I’m in the room bonin' these two white bitches, Ice baggin' up work
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| That’s how we get down, fuck Vegas, the black Carlo Gambino
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| Rockin' the wallo’s, blow his diamonds in Z-No's
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| Spicey, verses is jalapenos
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| Best to leave, when I’m in the big Escalade, I’m sittin' on Dino
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| Tone Stark, a poet’s art
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| Kiss the girls and bake them pies, clean up, some are old darts
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| This that real live don' shit, you heard!
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| Yo, they lick forty rounds, today
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| Okay, plus the shit is mad hot around the way
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| Niggas don’t give a fuck on any time or day
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| Or if he dyin' today or could he find a way
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| Blow niggas over 'turf—bitches, dimes and trays
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| Blow a nigga a jewel and watch him slide away
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| It’s like that, in the hood, he in the grimy say
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| But what we tryna say is gonna «be this way»
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| It don’t have to… it don’t have to… «My God!»
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| With big carrots and static, with that leads to bad habits
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| Drugs layin' in buildings with great big automatics
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| Animos' in the hood, it’s a fact, we could do magic
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| Splatter faggots in lobbies, the heat burn off his eyelashes
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| Don’t try to pass this, back up or you’ll receive something
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| Real tragic, them hollows’ll race through your jacket
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| Semi gangsters with weak tactics
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| Forensic scientists called in to display graphics for square inch to his back
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| winds
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| They brain and spleen is left all over a fiend’s mattress
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| Bastard, we cock and squeeze after we leave our ratchets
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| We keep the hood cryin' for massive havoc
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| No Trix we take from silly rabbits, yo feed them lead carrots
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| Them little mans’ll connect and they touch that fabric
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| The only thing that can stop 'em is that Teflon fashion
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| Maybe artillery’s heavy like a bunch of fat chicks
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| Brrrr… baow! |
| Ain’t no comin' back bitch!
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| Yo, they lick forty rounds, today
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| Okay, plus the shit is mad hot around the way
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| Niggas don’t give a fuck on any time or day
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| Or if he dyin' today or could he find a way
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| Blow niggas over 'turf—bitches, dimes and trays
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| Blow a nigga a jewel and watch him slide away
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| It’s like that, in the hood, he in the grimy say
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| But what we tryna say is gonna «be this way»
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| It don’t have to… it don’t have to… «My God!»
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| «Ways… be this way!» |
| (3X) |