| The agenda don’t ever change much, the same from when we came up
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| It stick with us now, to fit a crown without fucking your fade up
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| You double down on your way up
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| Up on your way, up for the day til the day done
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| Night turn to drop jeeps and Alize runs
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| The soundtrack to it in the back where the weight’s tucked
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| The baselines cover bass lines til the tape stuck
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| Fast forward to the B-sides where the tape run
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| We kept the drop jeeps but turned the rest into Spade runs
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| Running for chart space
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| Running like if we was running off of a court date with a gun in the door safe
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| Red bones at the light, fuck with this car chase
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| Bunch of Lorel’s got it looking like 4 Faiths
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| Drawn to the light post, right so
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| Rightfully hypefully know that we just want the allure straight
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| Playing BYOBs up in Kum Kau, like y’all don’t sell Privilege
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| So we just brought it with us
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| And we just want the finals to not feel like a scrimmage
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| It ain’t about the title its who you bodied to get it
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| And anybody can get it, word to a Sean Combs remix
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| And whatever Sean Combs did, we did
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| Same rule applied like summersaulting a key out, key in
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| Shit is ordained like a prefix
|
| All we really wanted was a '95 bad boy logo
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| On the back of a letterman, backstage at letterman
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| Fitted over my brow like I was Mason Betha in
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| Patent leather 11s and, the band play the record and
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| Puff screaming how we won’t stop while I get settled in
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| To the swing of the record and, then the swing of the record is
|
| Tryna mimic this St. Laz piece over my neck and I
|
| Get to swinging this rhetoric, Fulton street benevolent
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| But rap like a clip off the waist before the sedatives
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| OZ orchestra, theme music for peddlers
|
| But back to the scene and the stage that I was setting and
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| The feeling of a Hitman record gets
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| Higher than Branson, or fly as a Vanson
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| Or fly as BIG buying keys outta advances
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| Fuck up a bag and run it back or run it round
|
| Rollie’s in the sky, bet nobody brung 'em down
|
| And when he told you «t-bone steak cheese eggs and welches grape»
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| I grew up between Mikes and Country House
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| Mikes is better, the lights is better when you underneath
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| You light up whoever when you wanna eat
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| Looking up to a logo of a toddler with his fist in the air
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| Or letting the lama rip in the air
|
| Because all we really wanted was a '95 Bad Boy logo
|
| On the back of a letterman, backstage at Letterman
|
| Fitted over my brow like I was Mason Betha in
|
| Patent leather 11s and, the band play the record and
|
| Puff screaming how we won’t stop while I get settled in
|
| To the swing of the record and, then the swing of the record is
|
| Tryna mimic this St. Laz piece over my neck and bet
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| That I don’t gotta loop this no more, you get the messages right? |