| Staten Island… the kid, S. Childs
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| My time… out with the old, in with the new
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| You could be as good as the best of them
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| Or as bad, as the worst
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| So don’t test me, you better move over
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| You niggas puttin' in bullshit work
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| Destroy the herd, listen doggie
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| I ain’t try’nna set your bird
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| I’m trynna you and your team dead on the curb
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| It’s like you motherfuckers is trapped the timewarp
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| I never see Allah with them diamond nameplate belts
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| That’s some real homo shit, you feminine bitch
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| No court affendits, or no court scandals
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| Like how he get from behind the walls
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| Or who he told law, you jealous motherfuckers
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| Now I understand the pain of Biggie Smalls
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| And how a nigga can pray and pray on your downfall
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| Fuck 'em all, I’m takin' mine
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| By any means necessary, however it gotta go down
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| Even dog against dog, even goon against goon
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| With defense, like Jodie Foster in the Panic Room
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| With the guns ignite, like fire that eats you
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| Custom and information center
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| Off guns, hoes and the crack house
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| You motherfuckers be talking the same shit
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| Same slave shit, uh-huh
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| So much to bill on, I hope the airwaves is clear
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| I ain’t a murderer, but there’s a few that got poked up north
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| And a few in the world in wheelchairs, get 'em |