| Uh huh, Uh huh, Brooklyn Vietnam
|
| What you, Uh yeah, Uh, Come on
|
| Oh no, big Shyne Po
|
| Back up in the motherfuckin heezy for sheezy
|
| Gimme a tech that don’t jam (bang bang)
|
| I’m tryin to jucks some more grams and work this whole thing
|
| My minds poisoned, corrupted and diseased
|
| 360 ki’s
|
| Money make the world spin
|
| I make your chest smoke
|
| Have your mother singing hymms
|
| Particles of your brains up on your tims
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| Kiss you before I twist you
|
| 170 miles
|
| Headed for disaster faster
|
| I put it down right
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| Bustin off these rounds like
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| Real niggas is kings
|
| You ain’t rockin' that crown right
|
| Harder more PK watches
|
| Topless, bitches in cars
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| Only meals could heal my scars
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| Niggas wanna rhyme like shine like me
|
| They supposed to
|
| Niggas wanna bust their guns like me
|
| They supposed to
|
| Niggas wanna grind like crime like me
|
| They supposed to
|
| Niggas wanna mash like me, dash like me
|
| Allegations got me pacin'
|
| Grand jury wouldn’t understand my fury
|
| For fast cars and jewelry
|
| I could give a fuck if there’s a heaven for a G
|
| This is heaven for me
|
| Go to trial never plea
|
| Do a bullet and come home to the throne
|
| I don’t rhyme, I just talk about this life that’s mine
|
| I’ve seen niggas die, in front of my eyes
|
| Doin' my filth
|
| Niggas is expiring like milk
|
| Different strokes for different folks
|
| Just give me, different coke in different boats
|
| Black Aristotle Onassis
|
| All I see is crack addicts and automatics
|
| You rap niggas is faggots
|
| Y’all cannot be serious
|
| I’m in coupes with gucci interiors
|
| Airin' out your areas
|
| Tech nines, two in the flex and shit
|
| Lookin' at myself like
|
| Yo, I’m the best in this
|
| Sometimes I really wonder
|
| What’s it all about?
|
| How many bitches can I fuck until I get out
|
| How many ki’s can I cut, guns can I bust
|
| Wigs can I push, spots can I juck
|
| Every single one, cuz I’m a fuckin' savage
|
| Til I’m cremated, most hated, self made
|
| Blood type G
|
| All these young hustlers wanna bubble like me
|
| They supposed to
|
| Sippin on syrup, until I perish
|
| Pickin' bitches off the run-way
|
| Look forward to, gun-play
|
| Go to sleep with one eye shut
|
| Wake up and do the same shit
|
| I ain’t never gonna change bitch
|
| And that’s the cycle
|
| I don’t wanna be like Michael
|
| More like Darrell Porter
|
| Gettin' shipments at the border
|
| Yeah, it’s a wrappity wrap |