| Who shot ya? |
| Separate the weak from the obsolete
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| Hard to creep them Brooklyn streets
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| It’s on nigga, fuck all that bickering beef
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| I can hear sweat trickling down your cheek
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| Your heartbeat sound like Sasquatch feet
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| Thundering, breaking the concrete
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| Finish it, stop when I foil the plot
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| Neighbors call the cops, when they heard mad shots
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| Saw me in the drop, three and a quarter
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| Slaughter, electrical tape around your daughter
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| Old school/new school need to learn though
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| I burn, baby, burn like «Disco Inferno»
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| I burn slow like blunts and yayo
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| Peel more skins than Idaho Potato
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| Niggas know: the lyrical molesting’s taking place
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| Fucking with me. |
| it ain’t safe
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| I make your skin chafe, rashes on them asses
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| Bumps and bruises, blunts and Land Cruisers
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| Big Poppa smash fools, bash fools
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| Niggas mad because I know cash Rules
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| Everything around me, two Glock 9s
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| Any motherfucker whispering about mine
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| And I’m Brooklyn’s finest
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| Come on, tell me
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| I seen the lights excite all the freaks
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| Stack mad chips, spread love with my peeps
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| Niggas wanna creep, gotta watch my back
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| Think the Cognac and indo sack make me slack?
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| I switches all that, cocksucker G’s up
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| One false move, get Swiss cheesed up
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| Clip to TEC, respect I demand it
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| Slip and break the 11th Commandment
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya?
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| Who shot ya? |