| Mr. Rogers huh, fuck em up this time around homie
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| Hard on these motherfucking tracks, let’s get on em huh
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| Sitting on white bricks, wrapped in duct tape
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| Thirty minutes flat, I could bake a whole cake
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| Still sitting on the white bricks, while they wrapped up in duct tape
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| In the do’panel of the rental car, finna slide the Interstate
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| I’m grinding and I heard that it was a drought, and the FED’s was on they way to sweep
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| Even if they was, Tuesday and Thursday ain’t part of my week
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| But dig this here homie, I’m only out here trying to get it Every couple of months, I’m trying to stack another ticket
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| Quit it then I move around, so these niggaz don’t know my bidness
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| Give my brother K my sister P, the work until the finish
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| Plus I got Columbian connects, to fuck a nigga price off
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| And they know it’s real, fuck with me and they gon fuck your life off
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| Never seen the Federal Pen, and I don’t plan on getting by one
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| Material witness come, I load the talons and I fly one
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| I holla at the Snowman, when I feel it need to snow
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| And if it pump we gon jump to the mood, and work it then resco'
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| For trappers that’s all they know, and we gon shine it when the time is right
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| Duck off in the day and move at night, cause you know we still
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| Still sitting on white bricks, in the hood
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| I ain’t no motherfucking fool, I wish these bitch niggaz would
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| Got birds strapped under the hood of my low-low, middle finger pointed
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| up for the po-po
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| Got that pistol grip pump in my lap, riding out on the solo
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| Got a call for three 9's, but I don’t sell no pistols
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| I’m in distribution for selling soft sacks, with them crystals
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| Cocainia hit em like missles, when they snort that first line or two
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| Take over the whole neighborhood, is what I’m trying to do So I don’t do no cutting, when it comes to this work
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| When trouble come the pump’ll start barking, but it won’t chirp
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| But I been waiting for one of you niggaz, to get out of line
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| I’ma start hitting niggaz, up in the line one at a time
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| With that H.G.C. |
| like, Lil’Boss up in his G Nike’s
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| Under the street lights, trying to get rid of the rest of this whizzite
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| All it take is one whistle, and the homies is coming
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| I strapped all them niggaz up, so when they get hit ain’t cutting cause I been |