| Yeah nigga, haha yeah
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| (South Suicide Queens)
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| That’s right! |
| Uh, uh! |
| QU nigga
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| (Yeah, yeah, shit like that)
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| Knowhamsayin' put these drinks up
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| Yaheard? |
| Let’s do this right, what yo
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| Hold up, this is for my thugs on the block
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| For my one stop niggas that be huggin' the spot
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| Sittin' on crates, gettin loaded, get that cake
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| Dodgin' drinks, spit and hafta cover they face
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| Kick some tye, big truck with tricks inside
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| In too deep, tryna sell bricks from the side
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| See no games, with real niggas from other hoods
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| Car titles get lost, some niggas get jooked
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| But God forgive me if a nigga cross the fam
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| Holdin' the heat, the streets’ll make me force ya hand
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| From my wild crew, sets the new guns off the roof
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| To them slick dudes, hot and they workin the phone booth
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| Cuz Lord knows I’m gonna reload and bust back
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| Incredible gats, indicted for a federal rap
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| They ain’t duck low enough, shots shredded they hat
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| Murdered and gone, nigga it’s a medical fact
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| Hold up, this is for my gangsta team
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| And my dime little mamis rockin' Timbs and jeans
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| When it’s on, know we ain’t afraid to clap them things
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| In the club, gettin' bent, goin' cra-zay!
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| Hold up, this is for my gangsta team
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| And my dime little mamis rockin' Timbs and jeans
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| When it’s on, know we ain’t afraid to clap them things
|
| In the club, gettin' bent, goin' cra-zay!
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| Hold up, this is for my chicks in the spot
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| All my bus stop bitches that be pushin' them drops
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| Playin' the gate, get it ma, get those papes
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| Hustle that face, seven G’s below ya waist
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| Project chick, dippin' whips, cruisin' the strip
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| Gettin' money for tuition, go to school and she strip
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| Kill in the club, when niggas dicks get hard
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| Murda mami set you up and niggas bricks get robbed
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| Help her soul if a chick try to set my team
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| I’m tying her up, rep till the death of Queens
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| All my staircase niggas keep flippin' the jun’s
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| All my outta state niggas keep gettin' them ones
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| Guns in the air, hit you with invisible Glocks
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| That mean you never see it comin' nigga, 52 shots
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| I’m takin' ya block nigga, if you like it or not
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| You either roll or get rushed, I guess not
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| Hold up, this is for my gangsta team
|
| And my dime little mamis rockin' Timbs and jeans
|
| When it’s on, know we ain’t afraid to clap them things
|
| In the club, gettin' bent, goin' cra-zay!
|
| Hold up, this is for my gangsta team
|
| And my dime little mamis rockin' Timbs and jeans
|
| When it’s on, know we ain’t afraid to clap them things
|
| In the club, gettin' bent, goin' cra-zay!
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| Sticky Fingaz, the nigga that be stickin' them spots
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| For all my gun-cock niggas that be bustin' off shots
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| Lay in the straight, black mask raidin' ya gate
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| Show me ya safe before I put two in ya face
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| Dirt on my kicks, hoodies all lookin' for whips
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| Catch a rat nigga, leave his Bentley sittin' on bricks
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| Bloody ice-pick fights in the yard ten times
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| Outta ten, step to me and ya life get scarred
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| Shoot-outs in broad daylight, bustin' at feds
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| Dirty cops with a ki of coke, bring 'em out dead
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| For my jail niggas, stashin' bangers deep in they cots
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| For my grimy niggas, hidin' under cars from cops
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| Empty the Glock, hitchu with disposable gats
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| Bust you, wipe it off, throw it away, it’s a rap
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| What nigga? |
| I see you back in the hood scrap
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| Turn ya Benz to a coffin' nigga, straight like that
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| Hold up, this is for my gangsta team
|
| And my dime little mamis rockin' Timbs and jeans
|
| When it’s on, know we ain’t afraid to clap them things
|
| In the club, gettin' bent, goin' cra-zay!
|
| Hold up, this is for my gangsta team
|
| And my dime little mamis rockin' Timbs and jeans
|
| When it’s on, know we ain’t afraid to clap them things
|
| In the club, gettin' bent, goin' cra-zay!
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| Hold up…
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| South Suicide Queens
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| Enjoy!
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| South Suicide Queens
|
| Enjoy! |