| Year-round we them niggas
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| You seasonal, temporary living
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| Your run’ll be done in a minute
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| You are not infinite
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| Bitches can tell the difference, they know better than to smoke with ya
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| Back up a lil' bit, you’ll get the whole picture
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| So much sicker than them niggas, I’m coughing they just got hiccups
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| KC lights, roll bars on my Chevy pickup
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| Off-road style, lift kit, heavy duty springs
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| Stomper tires get it done when the time is crunch like sit-ups
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| To the challenge I rise, Lamborghini doors
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| '85 Countach never seen a real road
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| From the showroom floor to my seven car garage
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| Got a storage 'cross town with like seven more rides
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| Tucked inside — that Grand Theft Auto life
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| Rolling up in my safe house I’m looking down
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| Done it by my design, refusing to comprimise
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| They saying shit changed 'casue shit changed
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| Not just the horses in my motor, but the cost for me to show up
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| I’m a boss, and my whole team fly private
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| Black cars when we roll up, quarter pounds when we blow up
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| Hit the ground running
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| My watch new cause a nigga sound bumping
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| And ya girlfriend leaving you cause she just wanna be around something
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| Like playing Xbox and wearing weed socks, speeding 'round stunting
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| Orderin' thousand dollar room service, rolling weed up by the onion
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| Ooo I got it made, but I ain’t make it on my own
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| Who would’ve thought a Pittsburgh nigga would go and buy an LA home
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| Rolling up papers, turning down favors
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| All these fake kushes, I got my own flavor
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| Homie that ain’t KK in that brand new bag
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| Got it made to make that brand new crib
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| Need a whip to match that brand new car
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| Thinking maybe Maybach brand new insides
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| Everything black, young ass nigga blowing OG in the back
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| Last time you heard from me, I was rolling bud up
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| Looking dope in my brand new clothes
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| Eyes closed like someone told 'em to shut up |