| My mother said my father was a real livewire
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| Hustled on the avenue of Lennox
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| That he was a don, shot dope in his arm
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| Paid visits to the methodon clinic
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| A straight womanizer, no religion
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| He just leaned on bitches
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| His name rung in the slums, niggas run for they gun
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| Blood thirsty, he was so vicious
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| Poppa was a rolling stone (he left a long time ago)
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| Poppa was a rolling stone (he never ever was at home, no, no)
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| Momma said daddy’s dead (stop messing with the baby’s head)
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| One day he’ll grow up strong (one day he’ll be a man)
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| Momma said father was a mean muthafucka
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| A clean muthafucka, a lean muthafucka
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| Got money in the pot, got his pops in the block
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| For sellings rocks, a dope fiend, muthafuckas
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| He struggled all his life, got blood on his knife
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| Light skinned, he had your eyes
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| But my mother couldn’t handle him
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| The liquor, the gambling, plus he had four wives
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| My mother said my father had a real bad temper
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| Loud, wild, he was too foul
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| With no hesitation, he would kill you
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| With no education, he was still proud
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| With his brother Big Harvey, he did a bank robbery
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| A car flipped, all the money spilled out
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| Before it was done, police caught him with some
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| Riddle of bullets, he died in a shootout |