| I’m talking to you muthafucka, you hear me?
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| Get 'em, fucker…
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| You ain’t that swoll, muthafucka
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| And anyway, the nine shells’ll deflate you
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| Besides, you know who to front on
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| You know who the fuck’s who
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| When I was young they used to call me Toucan
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| I smell war, nigga, these cowards gon' have me force the hand
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| This is real hip hop, shoot up your MTV Making the Band
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| My steelo a hundred grand, dealing with pot niggas
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| Call me the baker’s man, bomb in the crack of my ass
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| Lick rounds like the Taliban, move on the marked vans
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| Thought you reigned forever, I spoiled your plans
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| You ain’t hard muthafucka, I leave you where you stand, Gatling Island
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| Slaughterhouses, been bout it, been getting CREAM, you bitches
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| I had the slugs hit you off your crutches
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| The J.O.'s exclusive white and mustard
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| The flow’ll leave you flustered, gargling your lungs
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| And staple a ransom note, to your little boy’s tongue
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| Broadway and Henderson, landmark, Childs
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| Already a landmark, I let him fly in broad daylight
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| As well as the dark…
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| Don’t step too close to me, cuz I ain’t playing
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| Don’t act like you can’t catch one in your ribs, cuz I ain’t playing
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| Don’t act like I won’t pop you and your baby mother, at the movies, I
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| Ain’t playing
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| Don’t act like the shit is a game, nigga, I ain’t playing, playing, fucker…
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| Nigga, I got this nigga, turn my fucking back, muthafucka
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| B-Town, nigga, Slaughterhouses, Killa Mob
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| Blood… |