| Cause Charlie M was like my gusto model
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| We use your mom for drug funds up in your father’s Tahoe
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| Trashing your condo, dip out, taking your bitch to
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| Romantic walks under the Verrazzano
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| Heavy ammunition, the MAC-11 with the custom nozzle
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| My persona, baby laser beam with the ugly color
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| Enters whoever follows
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| Hollow-tips, watch them dissolve yo
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| Back when Howie dropped a package off the Viper roof
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| Rag Jordans, Scorpio fatigues, vests and sniper shoes
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| We some righteous dudes
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| Frozen bills,
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| Owning pistols, my shooter’s long hands, like Tony’s killers
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| A posse pull up on PK Rippers
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| My BK hitters stay lifted off three jars and the citrus
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| Up in place, chicken palm straight out of
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| Supreme filled with coke
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| With zero interest
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| I pulled a knife on the connect
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| Duffel bag, three rifles and a vest
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| Ready to die like disciples of Koresh
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| Young Gandolfini, head goon, Tacchini sweatsuit
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| We be ready to shoot
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| Hit 'em in the head and we scoot
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| Di Fara’s for lunch
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| Dead bodies sticking up the trunk
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| bag with two millions sitting up in front
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| North Carolina have two horses in my backyard
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| Only Hebrew for two hundred miles
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| The grim reaper look like whoever holding the shotgun
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| Dead bodies everywhere, jet before the cops come
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| Killers drive by cold, like the good humor man
|
| But fuck an ice-cream cone
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| They shoot out your medulla man
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| Salute to firearms and Mercedes cars
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| Motherfuck the ops and my baby moss
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| Killers never doze off
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| Graze you with the shotty, blow your nose off
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| Razors in the party, take your Rollie off |