| We push the hottest V’s, peel fast
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| through the city, play Monopoly with real cash
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| Me and Biggie and the models be, sugar nase and did he ask?
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| And parotta be, somethin you cats got to see
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| And the watches be all types and shapes of stones
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| Bein broke is childish and I’m quite grown
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| Run up in the club with the ice on, me and Python
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| Scope the spot out, see somethin nice and I’m gone
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| You cats is home, screamin the fight’s on
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| I’m in the fifteen hundred seats, watchin Ty-son
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| Same night, same fight
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| But one of us cats ain’t playin right, I let you tell it
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| People place yourselves in the shoes of two felons
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| And tell me you won’t ball every chance you get
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| and any chance you hit, we live for the moment
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| Makes sense don’t it? |
| Now make dollars
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| Cats pop bottles bone chicks that pay for hors d’ourves
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| And rack up frequent flier mileage
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| Gotta let it show, I love the dough, hey
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| I love the dough, more than you know
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| Gotta let it show, I love the dough, hey
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| I’m poppin Magnums while Jigga bag somethin
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| Watch is platinum, got jet lag from
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| flights back and forth, pop corks of the best grapes
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| Make the best CD’s and the best tapes
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| Don’t forget the vinyl, take girls break spinals
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| Biggie be Richie like Lionel, shit
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| You seen the Jesus, dipped to H classes,
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| Ice project off lights, chick flashes
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| Blind your broke asses, even got rocks in big mustaches
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| Rock top fashions
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| Ain’t shit changed, except the number after the dot
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| on the Range, way niggaz look at me now, kinda strange
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| I hate y’all too
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| Rather be in Carribean sand to rake through
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| It’s unreal, out the blue Frank White got sex appeal
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| Bitches used to go, «Ewww!»
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| Still tote steel, tryin to see five mil
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| off the sin-gle, for real
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| You ain’t fazin the amazin
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| While your gun’s raisin, mine is blazin
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| See you on see me all talkin to sweetness
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| Take it for weakness and leave quick
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| Blocker, rocker, fellow, Bad Boy collabo
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| Two MC’s with mad dough, jewelry on!
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| I love the dough, more than you know
|
| Gotta let it show, I love the dough, hey
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| Miracu-lous, pockets stay full
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| Niggaz skip the bull cause we matadors
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| Snatch the P-89's that we pack in the drawers
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| And we, clappin doors in your Acuras
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| Snap like, cameras or amateurs
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| Make you all dance, hold a hammer to yours
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| Jig and Big rock ice, no cracks in floors
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| Erybody got a part to play, back to yours
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| Run up in your crib now, crack your doors
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| Watch the real players live, it’s a habit to floss
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| Play the charts like the Beatles, y’all ?dapped and lost?
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| And toast Cristal on behalf of y’all
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| Too bad for y’all, ain’t too many as bad as yours
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| truly, do we, we laugh at y’all
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| Little bastards y’all
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| Uhh, uhh
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| We hit makers with acres
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| Roll shakers in Vegas, you can’t break us
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| Lost chips on Lakers, gassed off Shaq
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| Country house, tennis courts on horseback
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| Ridin decidin cracked crab or lobster
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| Who say mobsters don’t prosper
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| Niggaz is actors, niggaz deserve Oscars
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| Me I’m, critically acclaimed, slug past your brain
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| Reminesce on dames who, coochie used to stink
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| When we rocked house pieces and puffy Gucci links
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| Now we buy homes in unfamiliar places
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| Tito smile everytime he see our faces
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| Cases catch more than outfield-ers
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| Half these rappin cats, ain’t seen war
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| Couldn’t score if they had point game, they lame
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| Speak my name, I make em dash like Dame
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| I love the dough, more than you know
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| Gotta let it show, I love the dough, hey |