| I’m such a diamond back sparrow, illegal drugs in a barrel
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| Had to shoot cupid with his own arrow
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| Makin' noise like SLOT machines, and when I CLOCK this cream
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| I’mma get up in your mind
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| Rap, GLOCKS, 'n thangs
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| And crash the party like the 5−0
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| But I didn’t come to break it up, I came to make the party way more live ho!
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| Situation’s fornication
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| You never seen an occupation like mines, and the rhyme design
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| Flamboyant like the Liberace, blow weed like kamikaze
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| To the bitches that really want me, to the niggas that never spot me
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| Throw heat like quarter backs, down at the warder track
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| I gave ya money for dope, you bring the quarter back
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| Indica and everythang, and when the bell rings
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| It’s like the twelfth grade tiga, man we gon' sell thangs
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| Make trips to Hollywood, and Chicago
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| Down in the Florida Keys, and Maraco
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| My mother got a twin sister
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| Meanin' if I seen my mother’s sister
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| I wouldn’t know if it was my mother or my mother’s sister
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| Aim like a P210, bullets that cut the wind
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| Brought up and born in the church with doin' major sin
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| On everything I’m in, this how I play to win
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| Just the sound of a lawsuit makes a tiga cringe
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| Cu-cu-cu-cut your body
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| Man Nicky very naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty
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| (Chorus — Andre Nickatina)
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| Man it’s the honeycomb, You get your money gone
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| You either hoop, or rap, or get your blast on
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| Man it’s the honeycomb, You get your money gone
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| You bring a sack of crack to the drug zone
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| Man it’s the honeycomb, You get your money gone
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| Makin' cash so fast over a cell phone
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| Man it’s the honeycomb, You get your money gone
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| You think it’s jokes to crack on your funny bone
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| (Verse 2 — Savage C)
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| My style is like a rifle, spittin' on rivals
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| And I put that on disciples in the Bible
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| I’m spiteful
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| Of crooked hoes, crooked po’s, and crooked crows
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| I blaze studios with nuclear thorough flows
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| Mouth runnin' like a track meet, 'No diggity' like Black Street
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| Lyrically we pack heat like jackas on back streets
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| Suckas is sorry like Atari, we’re hotter than the safari
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| Talkin' shit like Charles Barkley off a fifth of Bacardi
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| Burnin' sacks like Bob Marley, hittin' j’s like Iverson
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| Rhymin' doper than Vicadin the trunk boomin' like a Esiason
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| With more nuts than Murder Dog, we bust it like shot guns
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| Call me Tom Cruise because I bomb fools like Top Gun
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| I cover my ceilings with verses to keep things under raps
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| And my floors with (?) just to stay on track
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| Get it crackin' like pile drivers, the microphone MacGyver desire
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| To stay higher than five sky divers
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| And if 5−0 creeps, they gettin' shook like hands
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| While we slide out to the honeycomb hide out, like champs
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| We block journals while blazin verbals 'til' our hands turn purple
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| You’ll get jumped like hurdles by Nicky and Nocturnal
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| (Verse 3 — KD)
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| I got spits like I had a thousand pairs of lips
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| We never slip cuz we all about our grip, don’t trip
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| We’re the opposite of sluts cuz we never give a fuck
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| And we crush what we bust
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| Credential city on the hush
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| Cuz I wipe the songs up on the microphone
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| Until the fights break out and all the lights turn on
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| It’s gettin' rowdy like bar fights, know nothin' but hard nights
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| A Nocturnal hustler and I love to play my cards right
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| So understand I’m the man in this
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| Steady chokin', always smokin' on the cannabis
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| Like the bodies in cemeteries, we stayin' underground
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| They told me drop it like it’s hot, so I had to put it down |