| I know you like the way I murder the track
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| But I still be in the hood with a bird of that crack
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| In the burgundy 'llac with, peanut butter guts
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| The fiends run up to my truck for them peanut butter cups
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| Yeah, I pack tools like a handyman
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| Without a ice cream truck I’m still a _Candyman_
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| Yeah, just say my name five times in the mirror
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| And I’ma show yo' ass the true meanin of terror
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| Yeah, we cut your lights out, bring the metal pipes out
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| Memorial weekend, we bring the bikes out
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| The drop vipes out (vroom), the white Nikes out
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| The black strippers, plus the white dykes out
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| We call 'em kissin cousins, yeah kiss your cousin
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| Ain’t it a shame these hoes lick dick and kiss they husband
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| Now that’s foul play, and baby girl
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| I gotta check yo' ID, I ain’t Mike, no child’s play
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| I do the shit that cain’t be done
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| Lil' Flip and Zab Judah, we the champions nigga
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| October 2nd we gon' teach y’all a lesson (bitch)
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| I bet you can’t go around with the Smith & Wesson
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| Bitch! |
| The champ is here
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| (Hot damn man fuck with your folk man)
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| (Stat Quo came down there boy)
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| (On this motherfuckin Da Bottom Part 2 for you bitch-ass niggas,
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| you understand me?) |