| Boy don’t get whacked, boy we stay strapped
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| Yeah we love combat, we stay totting the gat'
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| Yeah we love war, boy don’t get
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| Smoked
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| I got my niggas out here, they totting to blow
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| Boy don’t get wet, you might be next
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| And if you playing with my money you get stretched
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| Bitch we got vets, don’t shoot at chest
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| And if you running, best be ducking from the tech
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| You lose your neck, no disrespect
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| These bitches on me, they can’t fold me, I’mma wreck
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| We thumbing through a check, these bitches on my dick
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| And if his man’s got it we gon' rob him on the set
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| I make your bitch regret, she fuck me and the set
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| This Glock a leave em stitched, bitch I ball like Dominic
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| We shoot with no regrets, like Stojakovic
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| I know that I’m the shit, I can buy the mall with this
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| Boy don’t get whacked, my niggas strapped
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| We known for running through them racks and get it back
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| Them pistols clap, and shells attack
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| If you a target you get hit, then it’s a wrap
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| I smoke blunts in the back, counting racks
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| Riding through the city with a pistol on my lap
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| My niggas blow that sack, back to work and get it back
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| Bitch I ball like Money Mitch, for the shit you could get whacked
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| You quarterback, then you get sacked
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| Take you down and you won’t get a quarter back
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| Play quarterback, then you get sacked
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| Take you down and for that shit you could get whacked
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| Squad |