| You’re lookin' at the rookie rapper
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| With a years biggest itcha rows
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| Yeah this nigga switch his flows
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| Yeah I dig and switch his hoes
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| Hear them niggas snitch to po’s
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| Where a nigga pitch his blow
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| And how my hustle gross is near that nigga Richard Po’s
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| I share my figures with the hoes
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| I’m where the digger stitch his clothes
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| It’s ghetto F.A.B.O.L.O.U.S
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| I got street legend, fame
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| I’m the kid known to put the Colt to a bredren’s frame
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| Like he’s Edgerrin James
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| Y’all stash guns I carry 'em on my waist
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| Ya part time piece
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| Aquarium interface
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| The hood rat Hugh Heff, loungin' on ya in the Rolls
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| The project Playmates, around the corner centerfolds
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| I’m constant hated
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| Listen to the nonsense stated
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| But niggas can’t shit on me like they constipated
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| I briefly conversated
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| These doors sittin' on ten times two
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| Mami what’s so complicated?
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| Ya heard?
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| Blao! |
| Explosion, game on lock
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| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop
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| It’s like blao!
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| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely
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| So duck deez motherfucker
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| Blao!
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| Said it before, ready for war
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| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump
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| Blao!
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| Slap my gat, I ain’t hear to talk
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| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk
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| It’s like Karl, Pac and Biggie is the greatest to rhyme
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| Problem is, this list only exists in my mind
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| So instead
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| I listen to your style and keep laughin'
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| You beatin' me rappin', that’s like Jim Abbott clappin'
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| That’ll never happen, I’m sicker of course
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| Then droppin' a dime
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| Like Shawn Kemp’s child support
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| Look at all you kids, underground and straight shook
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| You ain’t gettin' signed like nerdy kids yearbooks
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| I’m gettin' second looks but the industry is shitty
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| Cause I’d rather die than ever sound like Chingy
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| Right Thurr
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| Come on dawg
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| You ain’t gettin' robbed
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| Cause it’s uneven, like Dru Hill on a seesaw
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| Yo, you don’t want any bad blood in-between us
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| Like we’re standing right next to Magic Johnson’s intravenous
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| It’s Hot Karl and Celph so if you wanted a hit
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| You can peep the famous guys and fast forward our shit
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| Blao! |
| Explosion, game on lock
|
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop
|
| It’s like blao!
|
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely
|
| So duck deez motherfucker
|
| Blao!
|
| Said it before, ready for war
|
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump
|
| Blao!
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| Slam my gat, I ain’t hear to talk
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| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk
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| They say cause I don’t believe in Christ that I’m misled
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| Been shot at twice but never hit I just miss lead
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| Get it right, the name’s Celph Titled
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| Straight out of motherfuckin' Tampa
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| Leavin' enough gun smoke to give you lung cancer
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| Plans for your album?
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| It’s best if you lose those
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| Shoot up your M.P.C. |
| and you gonna find a few loop holes
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| We sellin' bullet wounds, havin' a wholesale
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| Leavin' complex patterns all in your head so you know braille
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| And so frail rappers, y’all ain’t Dance With Wolves
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| Just swimmin' with sharks, when the hammer get’s pulled
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| Any witnesses? |
| Who’s tellin'? |
| Nobody
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| The perfect crime, no autopsy, and no body
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| Without a neck you can’t rock that chain
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| No way for air to get to your brain
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| Another murder for this Cuban to claim
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| An inconsiderate asshole pissin' on you
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| What else you expect? |
| That’s what a dickhead do
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| Blao! |
| Explosion, game on lock
|
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop
|
| It’s like blao!
|
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely
|
| So duck deez motherfucker
|
| Blao!
|
| Said it before, ready for war
|
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump
|
| Blao!
|
| Slam my gat, I ain’t hear to talk
|
| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk
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| Yo Doc, pee on your floor
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| I’mma be on the whore
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| Till she knocked out, then I take a G out her drawer
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| I’m a thief, on the streets you might be in the morgue
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| Doin' a chicken of course, I take a key out a Porsche-ah
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| Box 'em in claustrophobic
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| I’m a pro y’all, know this
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| When sensing y’all controllers
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| Grown men is talkin'
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| This the fast lane, move over to the margin
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| It’s over when I walk in
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| «Doctor» on my license plate
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| The front of my truck resembles Mike Tyson face
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| When I pull up to the club, the buildin' shake
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| Hoes start runnin' out
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| Niggas start runnin' mouth
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| I’mma bolt the door and security the area
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| Got! |
| We molt floors to secure the Dillinger
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| Yo Doc! |
| You want war, I’ll be sure to bury ya
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| The more the merrier, but your
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| Blao! |