| If it ain’t a Chevy, don’t raise it up
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| And, if it ain’t the kush, don’t blaze it up
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| I’m sticking to the script while niggas changing up
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| They beats sounding like the homie, now they fake as fuck
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| But look, I was in the fo' with my crew Tiny Cobby
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| On the ten, getting high, with my whole hood behind me
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| I had two zones on me, play it cool, there go Johnny
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| As soon as I could say it, I felt like they got behind me
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| So he tried to hit the exit but his brakes ain’t working
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| Doing 50 on the ramp had to brace the swerve and
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| Much to my surprise
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| We ain’t even crashing, ain’t nobody died
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| But, we burnt rubber from the side
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| Parked and hopped out like it ain’t nobody side
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| Fuck it, GPS the body shop
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| This type of shit happen all the fucking time cause
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| All I do is bounce in my low low
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| Hittin' corners, nigga, I’m solo
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| Got the burner in the low low
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| Damn nigga, there go po po
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| Pops used to have the low low
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| I was little in a low low
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| You know I got it for the low low
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| You know I get it for the low low
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| Let’s get high, bitch
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| In my Damu ride
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| On my momma, I’m on one
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| Hitting that side to side
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| Bitch wrapped a flag round the pistol, the rag sit awkward
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| Hop out shwanging, sag show my boxers
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| Belt $ 12.50, Robins, no Dickie
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| Dice Gang feely, school 'em like Tee Cee
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| Aight, mothafuck a rumor last week I died twice
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| But lose your mind and double cross me, hope you find Christ
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| Papa was a rolling stone in the low rider
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| Piru boy with more passes than a Globetrotter
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| Six-Fo, Six-Tre, Impala
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| Bend the corner, three-wheeling, scrape the bottom
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| Front, back, pancake, fuck what a man say
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| Pull up on your hood, day, and park it on your landscape |