| One time for ya mind
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| Clear some thangs up real quick, man
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| Cause I ain’t like things to talk from being out here, yeah
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| Thangs I’ve be reading
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| Shows I’ve been watching
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| Telling… taking some real haterism
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| Real haterism
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| It ain’t looking good
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| Listen, uh
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| I remember a time, when one coast ran the game
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| And everybody showed respect to em no matter who came
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| But the success that they untamed became hard to sustained
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| And after years of money and fame they relinquished their brain
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| We supposed them from day one, the east coast was flourishing
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| Had love for hip hop and paid Amish to it’s origins
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| But when we try to sign with them our dreams got shattered
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| We got over look and shot down like we didn’t matter
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| So we went independent struggle hard for a minute
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| Never tripping knowing without them, we wouldn’t be in it
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| We watch the west coast represented to the fullest capacity
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| Brought a new style dropped classic heat and did it with mastery
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| All the while we kept racing G, still grinding patiently
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| Through the hating way to each station the city in the nation see
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| And now we even good so they instantly hated
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| But check the history the south is what some of y’all originated
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| Tell me why y’all getting pissed cause we opening doors
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| Why you try’na knock our hustle we ain’t never knocked yours
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| We gave love and look how dirty you did us
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| You need to step ya game up and try to get this bread with us
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| If be hoofing the mind state of hate is being proven
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| Jealousy brooming and fools because they units ain’t moving
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| I used to watch Apollo and no matter how good the artist was doing
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| If they was from the south, nine out of ten the crowd starting booing
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| They think we have no capacity for intelligent speaking
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| As if intelligence is only confined the one coast the region
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| We got artist who are some of the best in the world of nation
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| But get no consideration based on geographical location
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| They think it’s stupid, but I’ll tell you what stupid to me
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| Judging a whole region off ten guce you’ve might of seen on TV
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| Now all of a sudden, hip hop is dead and it’s time to rebuild it
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| Well if it is dead I feel it was hating that killed it
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| On the radio you say the south is country and slow
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| But it’s all love when you down here try’na make you some doe
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| Now when they shit is lame, we the ones they tend to blame
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| And brace the versity that’s the main element that extends the game, fool
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| And I ain’t tripping I was raised on east coast hip hop
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| I was trained by KRS, Chop Game with Tila Roc
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| We got New Yorkers who buying CD’s every one that I had
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| But since we so simply and dumb lemme give you some math
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| We grind hard, hit the road, hustle straight blue collar
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| Y’all are major labels per unit given half of a dollar
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| So if you went gold you’re grossing two hundred and fifty grand
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| Too pay your managers your lawyer and don’t forget Uncle Sam
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| Every promotional expense that they said you would need
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| Not to mention parts of the contract that you failed to read
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| After the video and studio time they recruit
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| You might touch fifty G’s unless yo ass in the group
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| Now down south our records independently drop
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| Let’s say we move fifty thousand to eighty dollars a pop
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| Minimum overhead four hundred thousand all our cash
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| Do the math sometimes we make more instead a less then y’all ass, yeah |