| Big dreamer, small business
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| '88 Beamer, heat seeeker, tall Guiness
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| I am living on the edge of panic rooms & busted windows
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| With a mustard colored jumpsuit
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| Seducing younger womens
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| Spend my days in the basement avoiding the super
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| Cornbread, peach tea, burning sour, eating grouper
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| Spiral out the staircase leaving on the creep
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| Sometimes I wish that I was dead, just to get some decent sleep
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| Time to pay my loan shark, Hudson & Horatio
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| Cigar bar owner with enforcers on the payroll
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| Emeralds in the headphones, exchange manila envelopes
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| Handshake agreements, my pops taught me to honor those
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| Move in total silence, so I’m never like «your honor», though
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| Ostinato bass line, copped a box of Optimos
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| Cops is like the Octagon, choke without a care
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| In the lab I’m Dr. Octopus, engineer extraordinaire
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| HOOK — Innocent?
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| Look — I don’t know what these motherf***er's expect
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| You carved your name in this game, they gotta show you respect
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| Traveled across lands, demand they cut a check
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| You so up to your neck, might light up a cigarette
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| (And you don’t even smoke…)
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| They say you insane in the membrane, & yep
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| There’s a couple screws missing
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| But homie ain’t done yet
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| I make you a bet that the day before you go
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| You get a million-dollar check in a manila envelope
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| VERSE 2 — Jake Palumbo
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| Smash pumpkins off the necks of dumb fellas
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| Country bumpkins buying guns at Cabela’s
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| Switch the vehicle cause they memorize your patterns
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| Rap is lackluster, never memorize your patterns
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| Snooping neighbors, overdue favors
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| But if I’m on the clock, then there’s food on the table
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| My mood is unstable, sampling Dave Brubeck
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| Dance like I’m crippled with palsy, I can’t two-step
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| Cripller crossface, true story —
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| I sold Chris Benoit groceries in 1999
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| Before I ever sold a record, before he snapped & went gory
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| Met my idol as a teen, the Wolverine said go for mine
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| Bumped my head a few times
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| Suffered two concussions
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| But cracked $ 80 Thou on the strength of my percussion
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| Last year, JP Midas Touch, Golden Ear
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| Old enough to know better, young enough to see it clear
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| (REPEAT HOOK)
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| VERSE 3 — Roc Marciano
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| Ghost guns from the Philippines
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| These white b*****s is feeling me like Ryan Philippe
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| Whip a blow-up in the kitchen, this s*** is chemistry
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| It’s risky business, we did wickedry with the chicken feet
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| Switching V’s, $ 50 G’s is chicken feed
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| We in a different league, I cop my ice from Tiffany’s
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| Drive-by's in the Lotus, the 6-speed
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| The 5th will bend your knees like Christopher Reeves
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| Getting the breeze is just routine
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| My shoes from the boutique
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| They cool as Kool G, they run a cool G
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| Just copped a new blue SUV
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| We don’t lose sleep
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| Was a jewel thief
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| I popped the tooly at your booty meat
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| Play your position, I’m playing mines
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| I’m playing God, you could never take the baton
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| My young shooter Juan he from San Juan
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| Said Duece was on the arm
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| After he blammed your car, he died his hair blonde
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| BRIDGE — Innocent?
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| What do you do when your back is against the wall
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| And you’re down so deep, no reception to make a call
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| All you got is a couple of bags of raw
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| Brown liquor, one mic & a button that says record
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| Second hand got me high as my first toke
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| Don’t even think Travis Scott come equipped with the antidote
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| Dungeon of rap, these chains will never be broke
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| All because of C-Notes inside manila envelopes |