| Yeah, this is it
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| The old school niggas is a wrap
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| You hear me? |
| Boy!
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| Killa Bamz, the kiss of a curse, all squads and units
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| Should now look to purchase a herse
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| Wu-Tang, bigger than these bullshit record labels
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| We touch souls, all over the universe
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| Powerful movement, never rehearse
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| Name a rap crew, we ain’t influence, it’s time to reinburse
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| Or have the rigs roll in reverese, over your body
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| Til you see your bone prints in the dirt
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| And since I came out my momma feet first
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| The thirst got me anticipating the outburst
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| And all these gangsta rappers, you can’t hide forever
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| Under them skirts, what you gonna do?
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| When a hundred Wu hoodies show up at your concert
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| And you on stage smiling, showing your teeth
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| Like Mrs. Butterworth, no homo
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| Will kick you in your dick til it hurt or til they scream 'red alert'
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| I want action (yeah) somebody better tell 'em
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| Somebody better tell 'em, tell 'em
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| Cuz actions speak louder than words
|
| So let the vibe off the sinister rush your mind
|
| Or be haunted like a voodoo shrine
|
| Coast to cross the beat like an airline
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| A sign, to rip a new asshole in the bassline
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| I’m running my show rooms so fuck a co-sign
|
| It’s yours, believe it or not, you cock suckers
|
| The world is mine, and I’m intertwining with a dime
|
| With the smallest waistline, my cough get by
|
| Harrowed a king in his time to redefine
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| The outline, set you off like Colombian caffeine
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| Dudes be so hard, til you hit 'em with the 40 with the beam
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| And they body get peeled like they swimming in clorine
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| And nothing changed, it’s the same routine
|
| Niggas is fronting like they strength long as limousine
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| But get burnt like nicotine in the belly with guillotine
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| Ok, go head boy, tell 'em man
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| Ain’t playing with you muthafuckas
|
| Staten Island, you know where we at
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| West Brighton Projects, yeah, MGP, nigga, for life
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| Killa Mob, Wu Music |