| YY’all get too close, I’mma squeeze the life out of you
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| You speak too loosely with your words, I’mma silence you
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| You ain’t a leader, dog—nobody'd die for you
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| You ain’t a killer, dog—who the fuck lied to you?
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| And I don’t even fuck with y’all ballerinas
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| Tryin' to tiptoe by me, I’mma stab your team up
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| Tryin' to get dough by me, I’mma snatch your cream up
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| ‘Cause my squad gotta eat and y’all can’t come between us
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| Thoughts of blowin' my fuckin' head off when I look at my gun
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| I cock back, can’t squeeze when I look at my son
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| I stop that, can’t breathe. |
| Y’all wouldn’t walk in my shoes
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| I’m antisocial, don’t speak unless I talk with a tool
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| You can take the braggin', the boastin', add up the passion devotion
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| The crabs that lack in emotion, we throw 'em back in the ocean
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| The Pharaohs packin' the potion, we back in action and rappers are chokin'
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| Actin' like they smokin' cats, their backs will get broken
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| And '96 was the year I started talkin' with Vinnie
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| Rockin' the city, talkin', really reppin' Boston and Philly
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| Now you can find us lined up with OS and QD
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| We flow best, so don’t test, we grotesque and beauty
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| I profess a slow death, your plan of attack’s a panic attack
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| Still better than Bush’s plan for Iraq
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| My fam in the back, known to keep it realer than most
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| While you fake cats cower like the Steelers coach
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| Yeah, we the realest. |
| Ain’t nobody stoppin' the fam
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| And we gorillas, walk around with Glocks in our hand
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| And we some killas, run it like the Mafia ran
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| And you should feel us cause we turn your fuckin' block into sand
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| We been bubblin' like Bazooka Joe since Boogie Down and Super Ho
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| Futuristic, new simplistic, sweatin' my computer flow
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| Army of the armed and dangerous, we stay with stainlesses
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| Status is famous, raps translated to seven languages
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| Rulin' rap, iron fisted, flow’s fluid, rhyme is liquid
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| Nitrogen, knife in my pocket, pull it out when shit gets twisted
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| Y’all lookin' for villains? |
| Well, I’m that guy
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| I charge junior high kids for a contact high
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| And I could always tell y’all was on some faggot shit
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| Like singin' Lil' Kim’s parts during Magic Stick
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| You’ll get your face rocked, nose popped, we got heat cocked
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| The A-dot, o-dot, t-dot, P-dot
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| Yo, ever since Blood and Ashes, life’s slowly been changin'
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| Catch me sweatin' every night with my rosary, prayin'
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| Meditatin', bathin' in blood, face full of mud
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| So grimy, tryin' to speak to me’s like takin' a drug
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| Razor blades under the tongue, with «Ways of the Gun»
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| Playin' in the background when I’m embracin' my sons
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| It’s like I’m huggin' Satan, though. |
| They feel the evil inside me
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| Nah boys, it’s me, Papi, can’t one emcee stop me
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| I’m stressed, blessed with a gift. |
| I’m still tryna make it
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| Stained from separations, my brain is like a matrix
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| I tighten up my laces, prepare for the sequel
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| Until then, I’m gon' hustle and take care of my peoples
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| What! |