| Yeah, ayy
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| Back again
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| Luciano
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| Me and racks in the booth
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| I’m sittin' down eatin' Benihanas and I’m sober
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| Luciano, I’m the man
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| They heard I’m official with the pots and pans
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| I don’t need friends, I need xans
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| Tell the world we spendin' them bands
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| Asked my lil homie, you out or you in?
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| These niggas be fake, anybody they mans
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| Used to reach in my pocket and pick out the lint
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| Now I eat Benihanas, the steak and the shrimp
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| That’s the Homicide Boys behind the tint
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| Everybody call they hood the trench
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| Boy your hood is not the trench
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| You got neighborhood watch, man these niggas be snitchin'
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| I don’t fuck with these niggas, I keep 'em at distance
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| These niggas get shot up over some bitches
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| If I wasn’t rappin', nigga I’d be clippin'
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| Stand ten toes down, whip in the trenches
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| These niggas never was official
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| Crip jaw better be official, bust a pistol
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| Hit the switch on the stick, make it spit like mystical
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| Pull on your block and I bet it get digital
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| I play with them babies like dabba-dabba-doo
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| I’m in the trap, nigga who are you? |
| One phone call get your whole clique through
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| Got the Gucci with the bumblebee, ooh
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| I chop up a brick then I hop in the coupe
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| Free took the traction off so we slidin' through
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| I’m the big homie y’all lil niggas idol
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| You can lemonade mumble, add on Tidal
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| I don’t write rhymes, I was born with a bible
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| Decked up Gucci, you can have her, we gon' find her
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| These niggas was born for American Idol
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| Came with the stick, bet that motherfucker blind you |