| Roc Marci’s my man, we gon collab
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| GP throw the beat on the grill like a slab
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| We gon eat
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| My man P say «give 'em hands and feet»
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| I think we will
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| Every shot got to be a kill, no survivors
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| All of your riders get hit in the brain
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| Me and Roc Marci, who could fit in this lane?
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| A collab’s supposed to be fab
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| Off the rip, it should grab
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| Pulsate and nab your ear drums
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| The song now becomes part of your daily
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| Rotate in the car, iPod and the crib
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| Should be food for the ribs
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| Subject to background check
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| Respect given only if you stay driven
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| Show how you living
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| Your aura
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| Not some shit you threw in the drawer
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| And pulled out on a studio date
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| Done right it could be a classic
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| Done wrong and its an ordinary song
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| I can’t afford that
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| The song is a bullet
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| And if i get pressed i have to pull it
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| You know it has to be a kill
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| Bring out captains, lieutenants
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| Evacuate the tenants
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| Alert the media
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| Social networks and the internet jerks
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| A little controversy, it works
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| It awakens the masses
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| Me with my glasses
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| Nobody, but me and the god Dadi
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| Ride the track on the trolley
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| Flow as a glass at the Sony
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| The lab is the after party
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| His the ass or the graphic with the sharpie
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| Moving with the brothers rocking rugby’s
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| Bubbly
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| Living up hitting spliffs getting chubby
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| Sessions with the legends, Porsche 911's
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| With expression
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| We used to make the same as James Evans
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| Throw another Heinekein back
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| The line’s wire tapped
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| Fire the mac that inspired the rap
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| The fire caps your dime like a Bermuda fly trap
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| Light the dime bag
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| Spit it nice, never rhyme bad
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| And mix the ice with the Cognac
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| This is historic, dipped the dicks in Taurus
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| You fucking with the two top scorers |