| Silverado, black package
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| Dealership didn’t have time to tag it
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| I whipped that bitch out the parking lot
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| Like I was dead broke and I couldn’t have it
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| Uh, swipe that piece of plastic
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| Rode around Nashville for three hours
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| Listenin' to beats, waitin' for the magic
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| Swung by the crib, grabbed WLPWR
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| Hit the bar, of course the bar
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| Valet park my brand new car
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| Threw the keys and when you move it, please
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| Be careful and don’t go too far
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| Took a second and soaked it in
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| Couldn’t wipe off my big-ass grin
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| Look at Will, «Can you believe it, man?
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| Just wait 'til I get them twinny-twin-twins»
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| That’s hard work (Uh)
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| I had to do a lot of yard work (Uh)
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| I had to pick up that white trash (Uh)
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| So I could bet on my artwork (Uh)
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| I had to cut my own path (Uh)
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| And do something that had never been done
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| Alabama ain’t no cakewalk (Uh)
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| I showed the world how we popped that trunk
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| And it’s one shot down, two shot down, three
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| And this old fuckboy keeps looking at me
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| He walks up to us then offers me a drink
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| I know that he wants to hang, he must think that I’m a tree
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| Wanna be rock and roll, he starts ramblin' about who he knows
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| And where he’s been and how many records he’s sold
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| With who and how and this and that
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| And I can’t pretend to like this douchebag
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| Even though he’s got the boots, the hats, the leather, and the durag
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| The shit he told me he wrote for so-and-so is just so, so whack
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| Don’t wanna be the supermodel for the clothes you wear
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| Don’t pull a seat up 'cause you see me in my folding chair
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| Congratulations, hope your mama’s proud of what you’ve done
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| But she may be the only one 'cause
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| From over here, you just a bitch
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| From over here, a liar and thief, man
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| From over here, you make us sick
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| From over here, you fakin' to get rich
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| Don’t come over here
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| Uh, black Schott jacket, black Harley, Lucchese
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| 38 OG, creatively a new worn baby
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| From the G to the A dot D
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| Went from the Creek to a Love Story
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| Went from a single wide trailer to the boots alligator
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| And a highrise over the streets
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| Ran through the dirty South in cleats
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| Never lost touch, never got beat
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| Lot of rappers talk about who’s doing what
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| Not a single one said shit about me, now that’s respect
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| Can’t buy that with a bat or a check, better check the beat
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| I mob with kings
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| Crown my head with a tattoo, Slum, make sure it reads
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| No more at sea
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| Fuck a message in a bottle, deliver my words like Desperado
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| Misfits under my umbrella
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| I hope these songs fulfill the sorrow
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| Take the bricks so you can build tomorrow
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| Like a freemason, claw and arrow
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| Free bird, a prophet’s sparrow
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| Flying through hip-hop, rock, and metal
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| And while that clock is ticking
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| I won’t let a soul living stop my vision
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| Give me that bucket and a mop to dip in
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| I’ll shine that floor until it’s popping prisms
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| 'Til you see the colors of the rainbow dancing off my Box Chevy
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| Don’t try to fill up my gas tank or my shoes, homie, you ain’t ready
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| And if imitation is flattery, uh, I don’t lack on the flattery
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| I just led gatherings up in my room with the magic
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| Go back to my cabin and charge up my battery
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| Don’t wanna be the supermodel for the clothes you wear
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| Don’t pull a seat up 'cause you see me in my folding chair
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| Congratulations, hope your mama’s proud of what you’ve done
|
| But she may be the only one 'cause
|
| From over here, you just a bitch
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| From over here, a liar and thief, man
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| From over here, you make us sick
|
| From over here, you fakin' to get rich
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| Don’t come over here
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| Fake fucking rockstars, don’t come over here
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| Politicians, cop cars, don’t come over here
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| Pill poppin' sloppy rappers, don’t come over here
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| All you motherfucking biters, don’t come over here |