| I’m in my big body Benz
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| Riding with 4 of my friends
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| Shoot a bird at them coppers
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| While blowing smoke in the wind
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| Up out the window my flag
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| I got my foot on the gas
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| Then my yak on the dash
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| Then we run up at yo ass
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| Riding the streets of Atlanta
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| Better take out the camera
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| D.S.G.B. |
| on my banner, raised high
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| Until I die, bet I’ma through it up
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| It’s Pastor Troy, 2000, don’t give a
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| Throw up yo flags
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| Throw yo flags up!
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| Come on you scared, you scared
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| I got them fifteen’s pushing, trying to rip up the speaker
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| Know that Pastor and Peter, on the hunt for the reaper
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| Small ice, CMB got the world in a dro'
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| We flexing hard in Atlanta, or we get the scope
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| It’s GA, Georgia Tech or Bulldog
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| 2nd CD, and I’m bout to Boss Hog
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| Atlanta to Augusta a hustla straight out the rip
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| Them Georgia boys my army forever we stand equipped
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| Ready for whatever you better go ask around
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| We ain’t bout to play round with ya, we cutting ya down
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| A million little boys trying to sound like me
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| Now everybody copying the one that dissed P
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| A sack of fries cheap, but I ain’t chicken
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| Soon as you think I’m slippin, you hear that pistol clickin'
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| And I’ma try my best to eat yo ass for dinner
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| Better throw up yo flag and tell me that you surrender
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| Throw it up
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| Throw yo flags up! |
| yeah, yeah
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| Throw yo flags up! |
| come on you scared, you scared
|
| Throw yo flags up! |
| yeah, yeah
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| Throw yo flags up! |
| come on you scared, you scared |