| Count me in, Cole
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| Right here? |
| (Nah, not yet)
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| Yeah, bounce, bounce
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| My boy, my boy
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| My boy, my boy, my boy
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| Yeah, right here?
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| Ay, look, uh, yo, okay
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| Concrete since day one, ain’t no time to make up
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| Ain’t no top on that hoe, like baby with the A-cup
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| Thank you for your services, invoicing all my haters
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| Be sure to leave your armor and your woman penetrated
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| I give her back, I hate her, poof, get out of here
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| I say congratulations, your old lady renovated
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| You niggas lazy, my boy, why you hatin', my guy?
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| You bought her Commes des Garçons
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| She come and play with your heart
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| I’m far from a popular artist, one of the hardest, no lesser
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| And I saw your woman, I caught her low like a Cardigan sweater
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| Call her whatever you want, I got my revenue up
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| In Beverly Hills, my ceilings like the Beverly brothers
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| Since day one, Folarin been the same one
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| I came up in them go-gos most of them was afraid of
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| Now kill mo', say that, now kill mo', say that
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| But when your wheel is a fortune, you ne’er gotta say jack
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| Don’t be talking too much, these niggas copy too much
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| These niggas cardio crazy, chasing clout must be tough
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| Fuck it, I wrote me, a dozen niggas got me fucked up
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| I raise my hands and raise your family’s casualties up
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| I’m faded, I’m playing
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| These niggas don’t be no gangster, they be paying it, yeah
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| Extortion ain’t dead, it just moved to the county
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| Shoot them out the S-class, I guess truancy the problem
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| I know every who and who and every hoodlum around him
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| And what you call a piece of mind, I call a picture for a bounty
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| Hold up, yeah, I’m in my luggage, in my luggage
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| Hold up, boy, I’m on the runway like I’m Duckie
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| Hold up, prolific, really be living my lyrics
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| So tell me who did it this big and who ain’t 'bout to slow up?
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| Who gon' bring my crown? |
| And who gon' try to fuck with me?
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| Faded off the brown, she can’t get enough of me
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| I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury
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| Bitch it’s going down, and ain’t no catching up to me
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| Yeah, stepped in the building with my vibe on a million
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| Slide on the beat like my God, I’m so brilliant
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| All other rappers, put your pride to the side
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| Try collide with the squad, turn your mob into corn on the cob
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| You’s a fraud, you’s a thorn in my side
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| I’m a knife in your back, I’m that turn of the knob
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| On the door when the boys from the corner come rob you
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| And tie you up to something, now stop with all that frontin'
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| That big money talk should be reserved for those that got it
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| But when you really got it, you ain’t pressed to talk about it
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| That’s why I hear that capping on your raps and highly doubt it
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| The game too crowded, I’m 'bout to get all the way the fuck up out it
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| No ifs, ands or buts about it
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| 30 mil' on a deal depending on how the tour was routed
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| I seen your watch when you first dropped, that shit was clouded
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| Which means you used to fugazi shit
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| Fake it 'til you make it-type, I shoot through you crazy with
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| Hollow tips, no holler backs, just hotter raps
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| I gotta black to make sure every dirty dollar stacked
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| Y’all aiming for the stars, bitch, I’m aiming at your Starter cap
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| Run, nigga, run like a fucking black quarterback (uh)
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| Stereotypical, but to hear me is pivotal
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| I will bury you niggas and come and air out your funeral
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| Have your homies on stretchers right next to Roman numerals
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| IVs, IVs
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| It’s the reason why nobody try me, try me
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| Have a nigga screaming, «Lord, why me? |
| Why me? |
| Cole did me grimy
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| He took it too far, he treat them bullets like they Siamese»
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| Back to back, I clap like that’s a wrap
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| But no video shoots, just hoodies and boots
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| Puttin' your troops in pine boxes
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| I blew a million on white tees and Calvin Klein boxers
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| This nigga silly
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, say what!
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| Who gon' bring the crown? |
| And who gon' try to fuck with me?
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| Faded off the brown, she can’t get enough of me
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| Bitch it’s going down, nobody catching up to me
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| My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy, my boy
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| Who gon' bring my crown? |
| And who gon' try to fuck with me?
|
| Faded off the brown, she can’t get enough of me
|
| I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury
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| Bitch it’s going down, and ain’t no catching up to me
|
| Who gon' bring my crown? |
| And who gon' try to fuck with me?
|
| Faded off the brown, and she can’t get enough of me
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| I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury
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| Bitch it’s going down, it ain’t no catching up to me
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| Who gon' bring my crown? |
| And who gon' try to fuck with me?
|
| Faded off the brown, and she can’t get enough of me
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| I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury
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| Bitch it’s going down, it ain’t no catching up to me |