| Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up
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| The ghetto motherfucking alarm clock
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| Wake up nigga
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| Lord forgive us for sinning, give us this day and our daily bread
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| Cause if a nigga don’t call you back when you beep him, he might be dead
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| Look at this world we living in, everybody got a bad attitude and a Glock
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| Seem like we living just to become a victim, of a random shot
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| Everytime I turn my back, another y’all motherfuckers turn and crack
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| It seem like just yesterday, a young nigga stepped up to the plate and
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| Learn to bat, military minded at a early age bread to live in a murder maze
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| I don’t wanna go to the early grave, a motherfucker like me
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| Ready to murder maze, I wanna go to heaven but not right now
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| Bout to pushing infrared like dimes, what you wanna do it like that
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| I can play eight to the Penn, cut your lights off right now
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| Mean what I say and I say what I mean, nigga like me don’t play with a beam
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| When I pull my gun, then I’ma use my gun
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| And I ain’t tripping, I’ll put you in a murder scene
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| But I try to stay humble, and hold what I got
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| Never let a nigga know what I got, keep my bidness to my own
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| So don’t bring none of that there, to my home
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| I love my people, and that’s a fact
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| But I wanna know, where’s the fucking love at
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| I don’t wanna put a motherfucker, in the grave
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| But I will to keep on, keeping on busting back
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| Wake up before you get caught up
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| Don’t keep on selling your soul, until your life bought up
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| And my eyes on the prize, and never fall off the straight and I roll
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| When you slip, hollow tips are sharper than an arrow
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| I decided August 31, 1999
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| There’s no more time for fake partnas, there’s only time for my grind
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| All of my friendships came about, because of the verses I say
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| That nigga Z-Ro got partnas, but what about Joseph McVey
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| Everytime I’m on the microphone, nigga wanna tag along
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| Wanna see me, when I do my song
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| Or when a nigga be smoking the marijuana, and the dope all gone
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| A nigga right back, all alone
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| I had to regulate, or be surrounded by fakes
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| At all times looking over my shoulder, but I came out of that as I got older
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| Cause I realized, if it’s written scriptures don’t lie
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| That’s why I’m thugging cause life is a bitch, and then a nigga die
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| I rap about the struggle, cause balling is foreign to me
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| Z-Ro be t-shirt and Dickies, ain’t no Ralph Lauren you see
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| Cause every dolla that I make, is a dolla well earned
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| And I’m putting it back in the game, to sco' some crack
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| And a strap, to dip sherms
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| Hopefully I can make it, to see the sun rise
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| Fiending for them back in the days, of hide and seek
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| And throwing mud pies
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| Bout to swang by that sun, is wait for me be right back
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| I’ma roll a optimoe fat as a wiener, and light that
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| Cause it seems I can’t confine without, clutching a sack
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| Puffing the sho' dipping the black, or raping the track
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| And I be tripping and sipping, and pimping this rap
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| I’m writing my rhymes, through my fetty’s no slack
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| I’m ready to the sell the, the better my chedda
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| Tell her to the fella, I doubts the shredder
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| A better competor, I dwell I’ma get her
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| Better get fella, I sell-a my yella
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| To hella thoed nigga, that wreck accapella
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| The fella that tell it, nobody he got em
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| He got 'em and shot em, and don’t talk about em
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| Plotted and followed, to get where I started
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| Out of my product, the plot of my problem
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| Got off my bottom, to talk to my father
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| My ceiling is ending, my ending is finished
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| These women keep grinning, to swim in my linen
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| I’m tilling my bidness, the bidness I’m tilling
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| I’m tilling my bidness, the bidness I’m tilling
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| What’s up what’s up, had lean in my cup
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| Been asleep ten years, and I just woke up
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| The alarm on slow, all my ten minutes up
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| Gotta make my bed, gotta watch my butt
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| Gotta clean my room, gotta iron my stuff
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| Gotta wash my car, gotta shine my buck
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| Gotta change my oil, cause the road is tough
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| Keep my eyes on the road, and don’t slow up |