| Yo, summer time, holding the nine, split the Vega in half
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| Jeeps rumble and my dogs puff grass
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| Bank stopping, hide your rocks, hydraulic
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| The kid with the most knowledge
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| Will obtain and touch top dollars
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| Hold me down, hand me my cake
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| Dusty, bake, activate
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| Fuck your corny debates
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| I’m like cake, or maybe like ten thousand dollar rabbits
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| The kid walked through, switch up his accent, now I’m from Paris
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| Cash the bill, frozen elements in gold
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| Signs from the most high causes me to break the mold
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| How the fuck was y’all niggas thinkin'?
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| You think I fell off the ledge?
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| The legendary Ghost Deini might be dead?
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| Never, impossible, pull out black burners like tonsils
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| Two Galants, hitting if we got to
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| Busting at y’all niggas daily, wall to wall, hawkin'
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| Sucking your teeth 'cause God chain-talking
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| Like Ghostface this, Ghostface that
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| Ghost sold crack, now his revelations spoken through rap
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| Velour-ed down like the Sheikh of Iran
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| Gasoline CREAM wrapped in hospital bands
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| Model vans, Michael Davis, it’s me against housing
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| Extraordinary pro-black, sold God creations to control thousands
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| Catch me at the flicks, Apollo rap Frederick Douglass
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| You know what? |
| Aiyo, fuck this!
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| Aiyo, how can I move the crowd?
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| First of all, ain’t no mistakes allowed
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| Here’s the instructions, put it together
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| It’s simple, ain’t it? |
| Well, quite clever
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| Marvin, Marvin, you were a friend of mine
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| You stood for somethin', ugh
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| 2Pac, Biggie, ohhhh, how we miss you so
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| We want y’all both to know
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| We really love you sooo
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| Aiyo, I’m Gucci down, Wally boots, Jamaican hat, long 4-pound
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| Ask niggas how I get down
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| Don’t speak much, deluxe plush imaginations
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| Hold a note like Willie Hutch
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| You might’ve bumped into me on the Rikers bus
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| Weed in my cheeks, gem in my beauty sleep sleeve
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| Dead serious, knowledge by 2% triple geese
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| Come on, we juggle mics
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| Three Card Molly, amps advance to the final
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| Show these niggas how the way we dance
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| Hot night, Jamaica
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| Came through in a booger green '68 Pacer
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| Mad paper, high as a fuck, truck
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| Two rappers got stuck that night, I ain’t saying no names
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| They know who, thank you for the chains
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| Outdoor event, New Year’s Eve, Cali weed
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| 30 seconds 'til we tear and decease
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| Quick, call my seeds, dipped in the crowd
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| The ho spotted me, he knew not to call my name out
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| He walked off softly, we exactly
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| Formed like Christ and his disciples
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| Black fatigues, lethal-faced doonie, he held the rifle
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| We had the whole shit shook
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| Your favorite rappers dropping they drinks
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| On the low tucking they links, we made eighty off the books
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| One of the illest since Magic Johnson, no disrespect
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| But metaphors’ll keep me out the projects
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| Rap connects’ll keep me correct
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| Aiyo, I wrote this on Donnie roof, after his funeral, on one knee
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| Thinking his killer’s following me
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| So to my nigga Donnie, up there
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| Can you please tell God that we fucked up here?
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| You got beer, weed, guns, AIDS
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| All these obstacles, it’s hard to make it nowadays
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| Why’s the Devil winning? |
| Some say it’s our fault
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| If that’s the answer, you know smoking cause cancer
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| Let me drop a bracelet, leave a chain behind
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| My tape stay at the beginning 'cause that’s how they rewind
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| Y’all know how we dine, we don’t eat swine
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| And we don’t drink wine
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| If you don’t bring me some motherfucking cognac, I’ll kill you
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| I can’t feel you, ain’t in my senses, and you ain’t in my dollars
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| I fuck with rottweilers, no leashes, no collars, brolic scholars
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| That’s Ghost Deini! |