| Word
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| Got some Remy Martin, some good-ass cigars
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| Check it out
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| Ayo, late night, candlelight, fiend wit' diesel in his needle
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| Queensbridge leader, no equal, I come from the Wheel of Ezekiel
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| To pop thousand-dollar bottles of scotch, smoke purp, and heal the people
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| Any rebuttal to what I utter get box-cuttered
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| Count how many bad honeys I slut, it’s a high number
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| Name a nigga under the same sky that I’m under
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| Who gets money, remain fly, yeah, I wonder
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| Eyes flutter as love when Nas pops up
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| Stars get starstruck, panties start drippin'
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| The ways of Carlito, blaze, torpedo cigars
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| Drop moves, drop clothes
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| Louis the XIII freaks, women nice size
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| I ride like Porsches, thick, brown and gorgeous
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| It ain’t my fault, semiautomatic weapons
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| I brought the world «Crazy,» I’m rich and I’m girl-crazy
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| Dick ‘em, convince ‘em all to praise me
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| They ideology is confusion, I lose ‘em
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| Fellates me, who hate me? |
| My gun off safety
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| Since a Tunnel escape key, my jewelry in HD
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| Silent rage, pristine in my vintage shades
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| I’m not in the winters of my life or the beginner stage, I am the dragon
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| Maserati, pumpin' Biggie, the great legend
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| Blastin', I’m after the actress who played Faith Evans
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| My little Jackie Onassis, dig?
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| I’m so high, I never land like Mike Jackson’s crib
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| Best on .45, still crack ya rib sacrilege
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| When lids talk trash about the nasty kid
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| Past nasty now, I’m gross and repulsive
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| Talk money, is you jokin'? |
| Cash everywhere, in my bank, in the sofa
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| In the walls, in the cars, in my wallet, in my pocket
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| On the floors, ceiling, the safe, bitch
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| I got all you envy, but don’t offend
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| I’m skinny, but still I’m too big for a Bentley
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| You are your car, what could represent?
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| Too Godly to be a Bugatti, you honestly
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| Must design me somethin' Tommy Mottonic from Queens had before the '90s
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| Drug dealer call, rush to the bar
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| Move, niggas, we don’t give a fuck who you are
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| Black card heavy like a magnet, in my stitched denims
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| Pretty women see them them saggin'
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| Bet a hundred stacks, niggas’ll run it back
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| Just havin' fun, I ain’t even begun to black
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| Light another blunt in fact
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| (Nasty)
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| Nasty kid
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| (Nasty)
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| Yeah
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| (Nasty)
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| The kid!
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| (Nasty)
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| Nasty kid
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| For the hustlers, thick as yellow bitches for the suck of it
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| Got a bunch of niggas in prison braggin', sayin' «It was Nas I used to hustle
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| wit'»
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| I display fashions while my lungs engage hashes, guns on my waist past his
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| Since I’m cakin' up, put funds in my safe, laughin'
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| And joining the niggas passin' you niggas was straight assin'
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| Excuse the vulgarity, I’m still not fully adjusted
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| Or used to the new fans hearin' me spit rapidly
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| I never see the whips niggas be claimin' they drivin'
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| I guess entertainment means blatantly lyin'
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| Fake it 'til you make it, I’ve driven those toys
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| Been in the wars, in the streets, cops kickin' in doors
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| For my deen niggas, your flow cheap as limousine liquor
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| I’m no fake rap CD listener, sit back and roll a mean swisher
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| For my Gs, tell these clowns make room for the king, nigga |