| It go, Frederick Douglas, Nat Turner
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| Ku Klux Klan, big black burner
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| Ashtray, cigarette butts
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| Box cutter gem star, watch this nigga get cut
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| Ten dollars, two tokens
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| Friends hollerin', Yo, what you smoking?
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| I reply with, none of ya biz
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| It’s father’s day and I ain’t get shit from none of my kids
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| Listen, liquor store, let me get a fifth
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| Weed spots, let me get a spliff
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| Mad as hell, plus I’m frustrated
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| Last album came out, you motherfucks hate it Rock solo, Ruck broke
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| Here’s a hundred dollars, what a fucking joke
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| Eviction notice, yo, I gotta go Album been out two months, ain’t did a fucking show
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| Ruckus, you ruined, I put the barrel to my dome
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| But what the fuck are you doing? |
| Chill
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| Found a new way to build
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| Fuck rap, started selling 2-ways and pills
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| When the stomach growls, and the fridge there
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| And you starving, and ya kid’s there
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| It’s… motherfuckin’critical pa My pursuit of this rap, knew this straight trivial, pa Niggaz all pray loyal, til yet, they all jet
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| When they fuckin’with a four dollar royalty check
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| And if you feel me, act like you know
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| Sincerly yours, the brokest rapper you know, Sean P |