| Killa Klan
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| Come get this, big business, motherfucker be a witness
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| Now I was coming in up in Memphis on that muthafuckin real shit
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| Bullets in chamber, filled up with anger, paid all my dues to Triple the 6
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| Scan Man might take your ass, slowly grab the pistol grip
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| Crunchy Black up in the back seat, loading up my extra clip
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| Coppers got me in a chase, I can’t catch no murder case
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| I pulled over, grabbed my glizzock to my hand and popped the car
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| DJ Paul looked at me, nervously without a sweat
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| Carlo Haywood got his check, robbed the dope mane broke his neck
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| Ox and vogues put up on hoes, stinging like a bumble bee
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| European Chevy Thang pop out woodgrain leather seats
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| South Memphis Killa Playas, we got brand new tapes for sale
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| «Mystic Stylez» bumpin' loud, in the South we bring a crowd
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| Chevy Thang finna go clean, car jack wit the fuckin' pump
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| Cuz show me love, K-Rock locked 'em in the fuckin trunk
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| Damn I’m going crazy mane, razor blade cuttin' in my hand
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| Maybe I’ll be savin babies, fuck my lady I’m the man
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| Rappin' ain’t no fuckin thang, Triple 6 be biggity-bang
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| Shootin' me up me block, witta me Glock, and that man known K-Rock
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| Finna be cockin', attackin' and poppin'
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| And droppin' these coppers like enemy niggas
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| That can’t pull a trigger, I figure this pimpin'
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| That’s leavin' them limp the Triple 6
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| Now I’m back when I been on the track wit the Scarecrow
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| Cuz the DJ Paul pop in the clip, no slippin' you’re trippin I’m taking no lip
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| Niggas are droppin their musical styles
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| Killa Klan gonna blast them bitches, catchin 'em when they Slippin pimpin'
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| Triple 6 done warned your ass, bitch we have no fuckin witness, fuckin witness
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| I got a street sweeper just to keep these playa hater niggas up off my back
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| But yet I’m always the center of attention
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| Pimpin' ass nigga known as MC Mack
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| You best believe I’m packin ammunition for these busta snitches
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| Stangin, robbin, ain’t no thang
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| A pimp done went from rags to riches
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| Hustling on the track, my ends is stackin
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| Cuz I’m breakin heifers
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| Make my cheese, bitch break your knees (god-DAAAMN!)
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| The pimpin mack is clever
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| Bustas trying to playa hate me, but they cannot aggravate me
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| Droppin salt off in my game, but MC Mack will never change
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| I’m chiefin like an Indian and thats the type of stage I’m in
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| I’m blastin wit this yawk and trick we stangin like a fuckin wasp
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| Provoke me, joke me, play me, make me, buck your bitch ass, pull your card
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| We creepin late at night with them thangs on the Rudy Poot
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| Trick lets see who’s hard
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| I ask myself the question why these watermelon niggas want test my pimpin
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| Jealous cuz I’m ridin on gold and sweatin these hoes up out they clothes
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| So brace yourself for the impact of the Mack, this ain’t the first of the month
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| And we breakin bones in half, and blastin bitches
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| Ho so be a witness, be a witness
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| There’s no love up in a nigga when I’m creepin for a killing
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| When you bitches slips, the Mac-10 clicks, buckin bitches with no patience
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| So in the med is where you lie dead, from them buckshots through your crest,
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| bullets fled
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| Ripping and stripping an armageddon worn to shreds
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| Pimp shit killa Scan the Man, I leave them bitches scared from horror
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| Of the corpses that I torture sufferer, in them chambers
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| The mourning, the crying, cuz eternally they torment
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| The burning (shhhh) in the bottom of my pits bitch
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| I’m raising back up on you niggas real quick just like the evil dead
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| My master whatever powers to devour you bitches that burn in hell
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| I’m clickin with madness from the Triple 6 killa demons
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| The anger that’s in me has got me splittin bitches crests man
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| I’m lurkin, I’m creepin, here come the Scan Man sneakin in
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| To drop a Mac-10 bomb and leave bodies in a slum
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| The Killa Klan massacre, leavin them bitches to rot in them ditches
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| When vengeance of demons slit young bitches then they rip them In pieces
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| No love bitch
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| Chorus till end |