| You wanted to wear the street, you will pay the price
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| You freaked out seeing what you're blowing up your nose
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| Paranoid and armed you speak the tongue of lead
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| Every week you change diezs, every day you change blonde
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| You got the best plans, you move little
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| You deal with the Albanians, with the Basques
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| Several times imprisoned, brought to the prosecution
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| A land never dies, it changes appearance
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| You have several hats, helmeted expedition
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| You don't leave time to say "Because...", you light up from your head to your sneakers
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| The arms of the Balkans sing the street without a theme
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| Restart the T-Max, nobody's braking
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| There's no one who loves you, only people who fear you
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| They'll piss on your grave if you ever die
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| You left the YZ for a GSX-R
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| Kidnapping, salami, you're the one pulling the strings
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| The Street awaits you in the dark alleys
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| They already dug your grave
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| Close to the sky but so close to the bottom
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| The Street holds you between its fingernails
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| The atmosphere is unhealthy, death lurks in the area
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| No more massage parlors, Spas, Thalassos
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| The narcotics are on your ribs, swayed by your soces
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| You wanted to carry the ground, it will break your shoulder
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| You play with the street, like your daughter with her dolls
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| A lot of guys shake your hand, but dream of cutting it off
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| A few coupes, a few roadsters
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| A loaded 9mm in the holster
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| You're the king of yous-voi, in front of you they prostrate
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| The little ones know their lessons less than the stories that concern you
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| Important Transaction: Moving in Motorcade
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| You better say your prayers, nobody's immortal
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| They'll get you point blank even in front of an orchestra
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| You fucked so many people you can open a brothel
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| Scarred by an angel, deep in Hell
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| The Street made you touch less roses than chrysanthemums
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| The Street awaits you in the dark alleys
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| They already dug your grave
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| Close to the sky but so close to the bottom
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| The Street holds you between its fingernails
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| 11:30 p.m., Paris 8th, well accompanied
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| X6 in the parking lot, gold Rolex on the wrist
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| A Russian on each arm, no need to even talk to them
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| Wearable sex, always ready to pack
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| Meridian, Third Floor, Jeroboam of Champagne
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| An hour later you can't stand anymore
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| Rockstar life, sex, drugs and dirty money
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| You sell snow all seasons, you're the ice cream seller
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| At five o'clock you leave the hotel you have an appointment for pure
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| Even the moon sets earlier than the street kids
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| Blinded by their charm you forget your weapon
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| It only took one night to rip your soul out
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| Start the car, de-spee you pull out of the parking lot
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| Go for it to vomit, on you not even a brolic
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| First red light, you want to get some air so you open the window
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| Second red light, full face helmet and a bullet to your head
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| The Street took you down the dark alleys
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| You burn among his demons
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| Not a person who cries your name
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| 'Cause the Street doesn't even remember your shadow anymore
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| Rap Genius is waiting for you in the dark alleys, join us! |