| My boy C on the track, putting it down like this
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| Live from the Manger baby
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| You boys out there on that chrome, watch your back
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| Slippers get got, feel this
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| Now keep the sell us on the real, it’s from the man with the grill
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| E.S.G. |
| what’s up Bun B, you from the land of the trill
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| Trying to get our hand on a mill, don’t give a damn how they feel
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| I know my hood real, you see us working wood wheel
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| What’s the deal, we still riding dirty in Texas
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| Got something you never seen, a 4−30 Lexus
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| Riding reckless bending corners, you slip you’s a goner
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| That cat in that mask, was something mo' than marijuana
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| Yokohamas for twenties, riding vogues with swangas
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| Three TV with a DVD, Playstation 2 with disc changer
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| From Southside to the Manger, Boss Hoggs be wrecking
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| Leaving jackers confused, like presidential elections
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| Bubble dried what we got, where we put our cash
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| Keep on crying bout us, I’ma put my foot in your ass
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| Put a hole in your mask, for trying to stop our shine
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| Got a Glock in my lap, at all times
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| We keep one up in the chamber, strapped for danger
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| These boys’ll get you, for your twenties or swangas
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| Midwest, Dirty South, represent where you from
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| Slippers get got, jackers get shot
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| If I catch em trying to plot, in my parking lot
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| They got me for my drop, now I shop at Topeka lot
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| I wasn’t high, cause Rodney D. Young, shot me a knot
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| Got back on my feet, one month later, back on the street
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| Twenties inches I be, on my big body fleet
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| Yeah you caught me slipping, but I’ma charge it to the game
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| But when I catch you slipping, I’ma put one in your frame
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| Gon be a mask in Texas, but without change songs
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| Especially if them folks, pass them gun control laws
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| I’m trying to roll like my papa, retire one day
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| Till then I’m on MLK, it’s on found sun down
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| Now what’s up Southside, we smoking trees to the dawn
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| Forget to turn the alarm, and find your TV’s gone
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| Get your brains blown, that Glock’ll pop your ass
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| Or should I let the electric fist, shock your ass
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| We keep one up in the chamber, strapped for danger
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| These boys’ll get you, for your twenties or swangas
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| East Coast, West Coast, represent where you from
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| We keep one up in the chamber, strapped for danger
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| These boys’ll get you, for your twenties or swangas
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| Midwest, Dirty South, represent where you from
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| Ride with me, and come see what that North be like
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| We sip syrup and Sprite, and let our mind take flight
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| Bub light shine bright, when we creep at night
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| With red eyes and bad sight, cause we don’t sleep at night
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| I’m from the side known for jacking, placking and pistol packing
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| It’s like New Jersey Drought, but these boys ain’t acting
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| They’ll break you off, if you live on the North or the South
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| Cause it don’t matter where you from, or where you floss
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| It’s every man for himself, out here
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| And that’s why we thugged out, and ride with no fear
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| It look like it’s getting better, year by year
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| But I still got my chrome baretta, here in the clear
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| But it ain’t all bad, matter fact it’s all good
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| Cause it go down, every night up in my hood
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| We sip pints, blow kill and just chill
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| We all from the North, but we all gone still for real
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| (*talking*)
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| Ha, that’s on the real baby
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| Know I’m saying, 2001 2000 and 2
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| Huh, Boss Hogg Outlaws we ain’t half stepping
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| It go down, I don’t care where you at
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| What’s up East Coast, know I’m saying
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| New York, down Jersey, Virginia, all them boys out there
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| I know y’all got y’all murder weapon
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| What what, Midwest ha, where you at know I’m saying
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| St. Louis, on up through, I know them boys out there
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| Got they murder weapon, you know what I’m saying, keep it real nigga
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| What what, all my West Coast dogs, you know what I’m saying
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| That C walking, B walking doing your god damn thang
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| I know you got your motherfucking murder weapon out there baby
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon)
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| Huh huh, what what down here in the Dirty South
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| That’s how we do it, Boss Hogg Outlaws, Big Dinero Entertainment
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| Boss Hogg Entertainment, S-E-S, what what what
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| My big dog Sin huh, that’s the style
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| Them boys got they murder weapon, what’s up M-O-E
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| Ha it’s going down boy, feel this
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| (can't never leave the crib, without a murder weapon), huh |