| Look up in the sky and thank God that we on
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| We ain’t die against all odds, I’ll be around for eons
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| Adversity never bothered me none
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| When that 30 unload on rappers, I ain’t seen none
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| But surely I know what’s happening like Rog and Rerun
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| While we respect the codes, me myself I can turn the other cheek
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| But never bring myself to re-respect the soul
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| I got that young man flow, that old man glow
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| Grew up so damn poor, with plenty problems
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| Lotta drama, beef popping, no Benihana
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| I wasn’t Conan or Rambo, I was just honoring
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| Going «No mama, no ma’am, no.»
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| No allowance or Christmas gifts, no mistletoes
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| Up under that little blanket
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| Nicknaming that handkerchief Mr. Hanky
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| Wiping off that pistol grip
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| Rightfully my nickname is With-the-Shits
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| Like sewers under them broke lampposts
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| Going «No, your Honor, I sure can’t go»
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| Niggas don’t believe that I’m from OP
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| That’s cold than a whole damn Moe
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| Whatchu know 'bout having beef with niggas from your street?
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| At war with niggas living eight doors up, it all adds up
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| Knocking the four-four Lambos, whoa
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| Daddo I’m sorry I had to take your stuff
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| Speeding off in that Ferrari, a Wraith or truck
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| License plate say 'Respect all praise or bust'
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| No regrets, just all faith in God’s grace, no trust
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| All day, my policy is «Where the problem, point him out»
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| Fuck what y’all say
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| Talk’s cheap, and of course, all fades is on the house
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| Either you with us or you in the lost way
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| I came to march, I make broads faint
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| I don’t make art for the faint-of-heart, rock star
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| Far as hip hop, I just do my part
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| Over my father head in the hospital bed in rehab
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| Only time that I stared at a pop chart, trying not to relapse
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| Let’s face off on a track like Emmett Till
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| I’m taking over like God put me in his will
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| I’m a friend of Bill’s |