| Well I concur in fur, prefer the flying spur to petty tight per
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| Persian rug burns, the yearns to make funds turn
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| Crib in the city one in the suburbs
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| When chilly really the gloves work
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| My artillery make a thug smirk, pull a snub first with the thirst
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| Burst on the right arm perch, trying earn the purse to purchase the earth
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| Work and serve been? |
| since my son’s birth
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| The Thunderbird come with the skirt
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| Not to be tampered with, bitch kiss the hand of the philanthropist
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| My private dancer drank Panther Piss
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| I rock the tan Stan Smiths
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| Wearing amethyst and dance with my Spanish bitch
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| She tryna land a man that’s rich, doing splits
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| The rooms moonlit, I crooned in the unit
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| Therapeutic, my muse through a tulip
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| Juicy deep rooted, the prostitutes are recruited
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| Pea-pod suited
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| (From the womb to the tomb, presume the unpredictable, unfold the scroll) x4 |