| Aight so, aight so, aight so
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| Platna, Platna, Platna
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| Yo' (Oh my God, Platna)
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| Ice so flashy, damn
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| Young Rich Squad keep cashin' bands
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| He talk smoke, don’t have no hands
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| First class flights, smoke runtz when I land
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| Free my boys, been stuck in the can
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| Hate all opps that hate on the kid
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| Think we ain’t heard hate, but we did
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| He bitch made, he tastin' the clip
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| I’m racin' a bitch, still racin' the whip
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| Jakes and feds, fuck pigs and the cops
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| Spent eighty bands, my bitch in a drop
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| Now she a fan, don’t listen but top
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| Spend ten bands at Gucci the shop, like
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| I been to the top, I been sellin' rock
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| Yo' bitch is a thot
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| Won’t get caught with bricks out the pot
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| Feds takin' pics, I picture the block
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| Picture me rollin' my Royce with a bag
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| I left the mall with a whole lot of tags
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| Bro got the ammo, I whole lot of mags
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| Doin' gang bangs is a whole lot of flags
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| Whole lot of got your ho' getting mad
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| Your ho' getting mad, your ho' in this jag
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| Pssh, a whole lot of brick out, yo' yo' yo'
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| A whole lot of brick got me off of the porch
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| Shit, now we out of the gutter
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| These niggas was hatin', now I’m in a Porche
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| You broke motherfuckers is pussy, how you finna eat with no forks?
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| You can’t even touch me or push me, lil' nigga, 'less you got some force
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| The AR it came with a torch |