| Look for me, lost in a whirlwind, 2012 quality
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| High up until the world ends, doing eighty-five in my ride
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| And these niggas hiding, know I’m striding like a giant
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| I ain’t lying when I’m rhyming, rule these niggas like a tyrant
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| Damn, Doms, it don’t even seem like you trying
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| Know these niggas crucify 'em, couldn’t crack him I’m a diamond
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| I know that niggas is finding my progression so uncommon
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| The pressure I’m still applying until I hear the angels crying
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| Sad day in Hell for those who doubted, hope your head explode
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| Cry about it, but don’t deny that Doms got the realest flows
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| My eyes is feeling low, pulling on the killer 'dro
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| Chilling with a vixen, thinking «This is what I did it for»
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| Still banging, Wolf Ganging as if you niggas didn’t know
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| Still trifling, Loiter Litter Life and triple sixing, ho
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| Doms, while they ripping through the packaging to grab the shit
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| I’m shaded with the few whom I usually blow cabbage with
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| New patterns patty-caking with mannequins
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| Cause I don’t like my fucking homies dip, bruh, they all
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| Jaw-slacking, all 'em awe struck
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| And I ain’t got shit but a pretty bitch and cigar tucks
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| Riding in the city and knocking out in the Starbucks
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| I swear these niggas is fucking phony, smoking spliffs
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| And that’s, prior to arriving to the studio
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| Eyes glued to a gluteus maximus, attractive lady
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| Where you headed with that shit?
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| And can a real nigga get a look at it? |
| Crook, panic-shook
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| Ain’t ya? |
| Blunt fatter than some butch ankles
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| Cheffing, fit the cook apron, ante up for good payment
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| Run until my foot achy, running 'til my foot aching
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| Full-grown terror type, Ferragamo do-rag
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| With my nigga Travy out in Maui, running two-mans
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| Smoking 'till I’m loopy as a motherfucking toucan
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| 20 minutes, burn a fucking quarter back to two grams
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| But I’mma dip, I know you must have had it with my rude ass |