| I went from old school Chevys, to drop-top Porsches
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| You couldn’t walk a mile off in my Air Forces
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| And you ain’t seen what I’ve seen
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| I can get a hundred thousand in these Sean John jeans
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| I went from old school Chevys, to drop top Porsches
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| And you ain’t did what I did
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| If you from where I’m from you gotta get how you live
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| Everybody already know, Jeezy a real street nigga
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| Every time you see me out with real street niggas
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| I hope you got yours I keep mine
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| In the club blowing dro throwing gang signs
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| And you already know dog
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| 745s, back to back, me and O Dog
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| These other niggas is jokers
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| What they rein' up wit I spent it all at Strokers
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| In one night, eight bitches, ten bottles of Cris
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| Forty grand spent just to make you glance at my wrist
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| Keep bread so we carry dem toasters
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| But keep back though my earrings ferocious
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| It’s not just my imagination
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| I’m the one on the topic of your conversation
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| Jack boys say they gon' rob
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| But on the real fuck niggas y’all don’t want these problems
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| Black tees, black Ones, and a fitted cap
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| The Mac-11 make me walk wit a crazy dap
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| Y’all say we country niggas yee-haw
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| The money comin back and forth like a seesaw
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| And y’all ain’t never seen what we saw
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| Stacks of twenty dollar bills, bricks of white raw
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| Where they got little faith, they don’t care bout shit
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| Ludicrous how they ride, I-20 wit dem bricks
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| Shit I spit it for y’all
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| On the real my niggas shit I spit it for y’all
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| Who gives a fuck about friends?
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| If you mix the baking soda wit it you can get a Benz
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| While y’all robbing and boosting
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| I’m standing over the stove like the chef at Houston’s
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| And it’s not about the flip mane
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| Want the real bread, dawg it’s all about your whip game |