| Turn me up uh-huh.
|
| yeah.
|
| He came back
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| In the same suit that he was buried in Similar to the one his grand father was married in Yes… he was still fresh to death
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| bling, two ear-rings, a chain laying on his chest
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| He still had it cuz they couldn’t find it And the bullets from his enemies sat like two inches behind it smelled the Hennesy from when his niggas got reminded
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| and poured out liquor in his memory, he didn’t mind it, But…
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| He couldn’t sip it fast enough
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| So the liquor was just filling the casket up floating down by his feet was the letter from his sister
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| Second Grade hand-writing simply read «I miss ya»
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| Suit jacket pocket held his baby daughter’s picture
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| Right next to it one of his man’s stuck a swisher
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| He had a notion as he laid there soaking
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| Saw that the latch was broken, he kicked his casket open
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| and he…
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| This life goes passing you by It might go fast if you lie
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| You go and you live then you die…
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| O-oh-oh-ohh
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| If life goes passing you by Don’t cry
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| If you breaking the rules
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| Making your moves
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| Paying your dues…
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| Chasing the cool
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| Not at all nervous as he dug to the surface
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| Tarnished gold chain is what he loosened up the earth with
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| He used his mouth as a shovel to try and hollow it and when he couldn’t dirt spit… swollowed it Working like a. |
| hmm. |
| reverse archaeologist
|
| Except. |
| his buried treasure was sunshine
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| So when some shined through a hole that he had drove
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| it reflected off the gold and almost made son blind
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| He grabbed on to some grass, he climbed
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| Pulled himself up out of his own grave and looked at the time
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| On the watch that had stopped six months after the shots
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| That had got him in the box wringing Henny out his socks
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| Figured it was hours because he wasn’t older
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| Used some flowers to brush the dirt up off his shoulders — so.
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| With a right hand that was all bones and no reason to stay
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| Decided to walk home
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| so he.
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| He begged for some change to get him on a train
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| «Damn that nigga stank», is what they complained
|
| Tried to light the blunt but it burst into flames
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| Caught the reflection in the window of what he became
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| A long look… Wasn’t shook, wasn’t ashamed
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| Matter fact only thing on his brain was brains. |
| yeah
|
| And getting back in his lane, doing his thang
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| First he had to find something to slang
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| Next stop was his block
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| It had the same cops
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| Walked right past the same spot where he was shot
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| Shocked that some lil’niggas tried to sell him rocks
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| It just felt weird being on the opposite
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| They figured that he wasn’t from there
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| so they pulled out and robbed him
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| with the same gun they shot him with
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| Put it to his head and said «You scared ain’t ya?»
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| He said: «Hustler for death. |
| No heaven for a gangsta.» |