| The royal penis is clean your highness
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| Thank you, king shit
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| -- Yeah motherfuckers! |
| Welcome to the United States of America.
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| Time to roll out the red carpet on y’all bitch asses.
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| Hailin from the filthy, dirty South, where the Kings lay.
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| Ludacris; |
| Disturbin’Tha Peace family. |
| Recognize royalty
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| when you hear it. |
| The throne has been taken, so kiss this
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| nigga’s earring. |
| Luda throw some grapes on these bitches!
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| These bitches throwin rose petals at my feet mayn!
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| They wanna spoil me, treatin me like royalty;
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| what I’m 'sposed to do? |
| It’s such a sweet thang
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| Work that track, whip 'em like Kunta
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| That’s why they stay down, they loyal citizens of Zamunda
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| By way of A-T-L; |
| if you disagree
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| don’t even look at me ho don’t pass go just go straight to jail
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| With no probation or bail, but this ain’t Monopoly
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| It’s Jolly Green Giants cause we smoke so much broccoli
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| Uh-oh, Spaghetti-O's! |
| Luda’s oodles of noodles
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| And testin me is like pitbulls put up to poodles
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| My rap career goes back further than yo’father hairline
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| It’s Ludacris — I pack more nuts than Delta Airlines
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| I’m fly, even when I get high I work cash
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| And even got my coach bumped up to first class
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| I’m boss to all employees — and I’m here to teach the principle
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| Cause I’ve been saved by mo’bells than Lark Vorhees
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| -- Man fuck that nigga 'Cris man, for real man. |
| I’m tired of this shit man. |
| Man I try to rap for the nigga, I try to get
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| a nigga tracks; |
| he ain’t hearin my shit. |
| Man for real.
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| Man my four-year-old son can rap better than that nigga;
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| man that nigga garbage. |
| Man I got talent too, the nigga ain’t
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| hearin me. |
| Man iii-iiiis this shit on? |
| 'Cris, c’mon 'Cris.
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| 'Cris, f’real man. |
| FUCK YOU NIGGA, MAN FUCK YOU!
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| Fuck you too! |
| What you wanna do, scrawny nigga
|
| But I got a arsenal of automatics down to twenty-twos
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| Know how to use 'em, fight dirty as SHIT
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| I throw a grenade and all-in-one bury a CLIQUE
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| You see y’all got it all wrong like women in tuxedos
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| And comin up shorter than five Danny DeVitos
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| I’m on a cool ranch, get laid more than Fritos
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| With five strippers, four wives and three amigos
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| I go scuba divin in Bays at Montego
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| I find gold links and snatch 'em like I’m Deebo
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| But I’m the light-skinteted version of Mandingo
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| I’ve seen more Beatles and Jagged Edges than Ringo
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| I used to run numbers in line they caled me BINGO
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| Cause I’m big, you a little star, you just twinkle
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| Old asses like sharpeis, y’all all wrinkled
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| And I stay with more BULLETS than yo’Billboard singles
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| -- Ho that is just too much! |
| You just gotta give applause
|
| he is definitely all f’real — yaseeI’msayin? |
| Ha ha I be fuckin with him all the time, yahhmean? |
| I’m sayin, I used
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| to just serve homes herb now how come through he want 50's a purple,
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| he want quarters a purple now. |
| I want y’all to trip with it man, I woulda sold him a QP last week of the lava, yaseewhatImsayin?
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| Yeah, can I get a little hit of that, little nigga with a bigga sack
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| C.P. |
| set a bigger trap look at that Godby Road and Old Nat
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| Where they kick it at? |
| And a lot of people just don’t know
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| Shady Park you heard just don’t go Quick to flip the bird up po'-po'
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| Makin the way for that rodeo, that rodeo show!
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| Gotta hit 'em with a reload, I gotta put 'em with the people
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| I gotta make a nigga stop, drop, roll — oh no where the beat go?
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| Bring that, shit back, didn’t wanna hear that, clik-clak
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| Tons of fun with guns
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| Fuck all the lil’chit-chat get back get that get that
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| Who knows, who goes there? |
| Motherfuckers it’s Poppa Bear
|
| Stop and stare; |
| pourin out a lil’gasoline and then drop a flare
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| I’m on, FIRE! |
| And you know I can’t stop 'til I re-TIRE!
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| Oh no, we stay swoll, rollin on Vogue TIRES!
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| Right down the avenue, passin you rapidly stackin
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| In the back of the Cadillac and packin emergency action
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| Camera, LIGHT LIGHTS, throwin a punch and then FIGHT FIGHT
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| Packin a lunch and then BITE BITE, A-T-L stay TIGHT TIGHT
|
| -- I’m just tryin to save ya shorty. |
| I’ma let you know
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| it’s real down heah. |
| When you ride down that two-eighty-five,
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| and you go past Cascade, get ready to go past that Campbellton Road
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| fo’you get it to Camp Creek shorty just shake; |
| cause dat where dem
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| real niggaz at. |
| I ain’t lyin when you in Decatur and you flossin
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| down Glenwood, Candler Road or Rainbow nigga shaaaaaake!
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| Cause dat where dem real niggaz at. |
| When you’re goin down that
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| ol’Nat Hill and you pass dat second waffle house 'fore you get
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| to the rich niggaz shaaake; |
| cause dat where dem real niggaz at!
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| Matter of fact, just shaje when ya get to Georgia nigga. |