| {*sampled singer singing «Do, Do U"repeats all
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| throughout the song*}
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| Come on my niggas, yo.
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| Put your guns in your right hand and hold it down towards the floor
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| Point all your guns down towards the floor for a minute
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| Yeah, you could hold 'em, just point 'em down towards the floor
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| For a sec, aight? |
| (Yo y’all ain’t fuckin’wit the Wu)
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| We gon’splash like this, all my wild Digi heads
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| (Y'all niggas is crook) Y’all niggas move a little up to the front
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| Y’all niggas know what I’m talkin’about
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| Word up, my weedheads, y’all play the right for a second
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| Nahmean? |
| Check it out
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| All y’all niggas on X, y’all keep y’all asses in the back
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| Aight? |
| Straight up, in fact, matter of fact
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| We gon’mingle this shit like mothafuckin’peas in the mothafuckin’pot
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| Straight up Digi Digi style, word up, as we splash you right
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| (Yeah, yeah, my niggas is crew, now y’all ain’t
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| fuckin’wit the Wu Oh now y’all. |
| come on!)
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| Walk wit a didi bop ock, you silly pop, Jiffy Pop
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| Fuck around, son, I’ll blow ya face up with fifty shots
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| Sharp darts, and it pop pop like tarts
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| Extreme speed like Anakin inside the Pod
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| Headed for the finish line, BOODOO, watch Bobby cross it Hoes with the diamonds on your toes, come on and floss it I be one of those tall skinny cats with the four-nine
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| Three-eleven that rips through Power-U's and breaks spines
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| I culture power-tuggin'boys who be drunk, buggin'
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| Lovin’loud noise from toys, club thuggin'
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| Sweet chocolate deluxe, rugged, sexy buttercup
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| That don’t give a fuck about the cop in the club
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| Or the bouncer with the flashlight, one walked passed, right?
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| Some pulled the razor and chopped his ear like he was Mad Mike
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| I played the cipher in the corner, teachin’math
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| One for one thoughts, a hundred brothers won’t last
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| Because you can’t do me. |
| (x3)
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| «Do U feel?»
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| Come on!
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| Yo, son, +Wake Up+!
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| Yo, I gotta do this, man
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| I gotta get this money, son
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| Features in the crowd, appearance like, «Black I’m proud»
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| In the background, no sounds, four pound, we hold ground!
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| Brooklyn bound, seven initials up in the crown
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| One man’s ramblin', officials they shot him down
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| Supreme, extreme, lean, killin’machines
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| All I wanna do is feed my seed, plus my team
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| Keep it logical, no games, straight up about Prodigal
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| Diabolic drums and I run from none
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| Testimony one, give my life before my only son
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| Thelonious crumbs, why they wanna press me for guns?
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| Now I’m in the face of the judge, court case thug
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| From a race, laced, based on drugs, some made slugs
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| As +It Was Written+, stroll through any block forbidden
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| Glock hidden, why they wanna stop precision?
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| Eighty-five percent of my brothers locked in prison
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| And we just keep dyin’for the love of good livin'
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| But Do U! |
| Do U! |
| Do U!
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| «Do U feel?"(x2)
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| You know those jams in the park, produced the spark
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| Made me feel words how I read books in the dark
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| I always took it to heart, loved the art
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| A lifetime of darts, ripped crews apart
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| Made their stay real short, I stamped the passport
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| Couldn’t bring through no wack shit of no sort
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| I walked the borough challengin’the best that stood
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| Torch metal mics, they conduct better than wood
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| Once I electrify and only expect to die
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| Rounded Bed-Stuy, ZZZZ, nigga fry
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| My opponent block, the beat comin’from his box
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| Investment ranker who’s a joke in the stocks
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| Keep a rhythmic pace, maintainin’great balance
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| Movin’in steps of unheard of silence
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| Normally progressioners, they’re slow steepin'
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| Niggas wanna light up when there’s gas leakin'
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| «Do U feel?» |