| Fell in love with a Cadillac — 2X
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| Trunk turn flip, like a acrobat
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| Broke up with my foreign car, and fell in love with a Cadillac — 3X
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| Trunk turn flip, like a acrobat
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| I woke up, thinking foreign car
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| But the Cadillac, got a nigga sitting in a daze
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| 24's hittin switches, sitting sideways
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| Trae flipping through the hood, like I’m running through a maze
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| Find me trunk up, with the top back
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| One deep in the front, two freaks in the back
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| Haters mad at me, cause I’m MVP stats
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| Better give me fifty feet, cause I’m good with the gat
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| Good with the track, like I’m good with the hands
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| 15's banging, like I’m battle of the bands
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| New Benz like send, they run up out of grand
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| And the trunk read Trae, so they know that I’m the man
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| Me Paul Wall, in a slab out of Texas
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| In a Cadillac, had to get rid of the Lexus
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| Rather be gangsta, tipping on something
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| With something in the clip, that’ll get rid of the plexing
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| I fell in love, with my Coupe DeVille
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| It’s on a switch, it’s the truth for real
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| Scraping the back down, these Southwest streets
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| Got a few teeth in the grill, loose for real
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| Big pumps, two to the front one to the back
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| One wheel in the air, gliding like that
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| Three O-7, rebuilt without chrome
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| Hundred spoke Daytons, with the two prones
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| Next week, I’m in some’ing from the Lowrider book
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| I’mma show these motherfuckers, how a lowrider look
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| Hit a switch on Boss, will get your lowrider took
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| In '98, I use to be the lowrider crook
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| Fleetwoods, El-Dogs Sedan DeVilles
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| When I ride, always equipped with handy steel
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| Cocked up on three, and got em standing still
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| I’m in the attic, wondering when I’m gon land and chill
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| I’m never staying focused, always smoking
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| Presidential kushing, always choking
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| Nigga I drank up, all your purple
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| If I find out, that shit be potent
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| Mayn I get high, fuck that shit
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| Your baby mama out here, sucking my dick
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| I’mma make her pay me, that child support
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| I’m a pimp out here, trying to make it rich
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| If you really wanna get high, let me know
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| I’ll tell C.B., let you hit that blow
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| We can ride in the Cadillac, way in the fucking back
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| Hitting all the spots, just hogging that ho
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| Then take a lot of freaks, to the Hotel room
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| System on blast, you can hear that boom
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| Mayn I’mma pop bout, two three X
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| And drop my drawas, and take this chewing
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| See in that M-Town, we snort that blow
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| Turn around mayn, and whip our hoes
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| Take me big gulp, full of that drank
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| Now I’m high, don’t know what to think
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| First I had em beating fast, now I got em knocking slow
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| Sniff a lil' mo' of this sip a lil' mo' of that, even down the middle whoa
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| Closed up my foreign do’s, opened up my American do’s
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| '72 Sedan DeVille, 84's and 20 inch vogues
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| Chandillere, hanging from the top
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| Fish tank, lit up in the glass box
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| But I had to put, the toy fish in it
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| Cause the real ones died, from the kick box bitch
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| Jay’Ton, pull up in a Lac cocked up
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| 22 inch chrome, bags popped up
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| Diamonds in our mouth, cash stocked up
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| Ice game six, so the game locked up
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| 9−4 Fleetwood, headlights on
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| Fifth let back, but the trunk moved on
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| Flying through the hood, with the six 12's on
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| Seal in the groove, super kush to the dome
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| 19 in the game, only love for my Lac
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| Never loving a dame, swang to the left
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| When I’m hulling the frame, trying to take mine
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| You’ll be hugging a stain, like I’m hugging the lane
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| Screw tape still on, drank in my cup
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| Everytime, that I roam
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| Roach ass hoes, still calling my phone
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| Representing for the South, H-Town is my home
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| I’m a 24 inch black, Fleetwood glider
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| Tipping the block, they love the way the drop sit wider
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| Lord knows haters mad, when the left fly by ya
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| Call it what you want, but the Lac stay way liver
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| Boppers all on my dick, with the trunk up
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| Beating up the Boulevard, with the beat pumped up
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| Hit a switch on the remote, the front jump up
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| Run up on the slab, roam that’ll get you lumped up
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| Hopping out looking like do’s, got threw on backwards
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| Throwed wardrobe, by my bed son of a bastard
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| When it come to Cadillacs, Trae got that mastered
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| And the game that I got, way flyer than NASA
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| Me and Three 6, representing for the drank sippers
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| Iced out grills, and the wood grain grippers
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| 84 swangs, and the late night tippers
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| Riding for the hood, Cadillac tight whippers
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| I got that candy red, with extra gloss
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| Heads turn, when they see me floss
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| Scooped up Trae, on a sunny day
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| Holla at Jay’Ton, and my boy Lil' Boss
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| Trunk to stay popping, and hoes stay bopping
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| Cause the swangas poking, and the blades stay chopping
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| Beat the case, but the FEDs still watching
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| In the Fed-Ex truck, right down the street plotting
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| Dropped the top, if the sun on shine
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| Sipping on some potent, puffing on pine
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| Slow Loud And Bangin', in a candy slab line
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| Down here in H-Town, it go down
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| Old school Chevies, and throwback Lacs
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| Swangas and vogues, with a trunk that crack
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| This how it goes, down here in the 3rd Coast
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| Houston Texas, at the bottom of the map baby |