| Yo, born May 13th 'round seventy-one
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| Vietnam was a memory before my birth
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| Around the time Nicky Barnes era came to a close
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| Too young to know yet, poppa told me later on
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| The place was Brook-nam, BK, NY City
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| Lovechild through a bond was me, so evidently
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| The sperm the egg joined in between my mama loins
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| Coulda been heads or tails like, flippin a coin
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| Pops pull out of you here, wouldn’t exist at all
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| If mama eggs wasn’t fertile wouldn’t exist at all
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| The creator gave a nod, I’m a gift to all
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| Spring child like a flower, not born in the fall
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| Fam came from the South but I was reared up North
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| Portuguese grandmother, never met her before
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| Pops say, I’m a mirror image of my grandpa
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| All I say is strong genes be the only answer
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| Yo, ever since I was a kid I was popular
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| Seein my future through a pair of binoculars
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| From the age of single digits up until my pre-teens
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| Always had big dreams in mind, at the time
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| So young, I didn’t know my callin would be a rhyme
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| Years later manifested in the form of a song
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| Playin football, quarterback, O had a arm
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| Two-hand touch, picture receiver goin long
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| A young black version of Terry Bradshaw
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| Older niggas on the block attention I captured
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| Miraculous moves, maneuver with the ball in my palm
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| Precise throwin first downs, hand-offs and throwin bombs
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| Young Don, felt like Juan
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| Girls would flirt but I didn’t know how to respond
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| Always knowin growin up I’d be a pro and not a con
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| Brother from another mother locked up since eighty-one
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| Yo — I’m still a young dude, at the same time grown
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| Baby boy to my momma, the youngest of four
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| My life’s no fairytale, can’t call me Cinder-fella
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| Though life be like rain, my thoughts the umbrella
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| O, got it covered it’s a gift not a talent
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| Bein bougie or corn-chip, I simply won’t allow it
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| My aura’s like, well, it’s hard to describe
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| Let me just say I’m on the serious side
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| Learned lessons from my hood that I dwelled in, resided
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| Had my share of gettin drunk as fuck and gettin potted
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| Gun in my waist, if I pull it bet I pop it
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| Mush my nickname from a cousin I adopted
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| Mic the legacy’s on me, I got this
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| Reppin when I holla, won’t misuse or mock it
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| The word spoken is truth; |
| the labor that I put my momma through
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| 'til now, to her I made a promise to |