| Since I was a young buck my mackin was cool
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| I used to tongue-kiss girls in the back of the school
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| And maybe sometime a nigga got mo' than a kiss
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| I put my finger in some puss that smelled like ???
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| And as I reminisce, huh, it’s kinda funny
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| How I talked little girls out they lunch money
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| They didn’t run from me, they used to jock young Dre
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| Then I stepped up game and got some cock one day
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| It was a bloody mess and yes, tight as some vice grips
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| But I was a little nigga killin some tight shit
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| Tossed, turned and started fuckin her few friends
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| Cause she told two friends and they told two friends
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| And word got out that young Dre could fuck good
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| Then I bumped a bitch who could fuck and suck good
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| And after that, cock was nothin to me
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| So I flipped the script and stopped fuckin' for free
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| Every bitch I dicked down, had to kick down
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| Whoever I tossed up, had to cough up
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| Young in the game, mayne, but quick to learn
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| That money makes this world turn
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| So I peep game, pop that thang
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| And let fools know how I got that name
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| Mac Dre, boy
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| (Mac Dre, boy)
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| I used to creep on Crest streets with a tight mask on
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| Posted, toasted, getting my cash on
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| Strapped with a gat and a bottle of Hen-do
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| Orange zig zags and big bags of that Endo
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| I pushed pebbles to the midnight hour
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| 24−7 same clothes, no shower
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| Dopesacks smellin like nutsacks, but fuck it
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| I was checkin ducats, collectin' buckets
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| But now I’m fresh out the pen with a chip on my shoulder
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| And out of the motor my blood runs much colder
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| Somebody told a fed I was in the mix
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| Hittin licks, nigga, ain’t that a bitch
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| I make raps, stay far from saps
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| Checks my traps and collect my snaps
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| The Country Club Crest is where I got this game
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| And rappin on the mic is how I got that name |