| Yeah
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| Funky! |
| Uh
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| Yeah
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| Yo, let me tell you bout a girl named Peg
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| A D.C. haircut and stewardess legs
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| Dressed to kill, her physique is ill
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| Her face belongs on a dollar bill
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| Her boyfriend’s down with the M-O-B
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| Drivin around in a 300e
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| Trunk jewelry and all that
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| Talkin bout, «My man can’t fall, black!»
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| Sippin on cham', diamonds on her hand
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| Takin cash, carryin drugs for her man
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| Drivin around in a kitted up Jetta
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| Under the seat a automatic beretta
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| You know, the whole blasé blah of rap
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| Tellin brothers they need to get off the brastrap
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| That’s the type of girl she is
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| Word to Miz, she got the
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| Full length blue fox, knock you out the box
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| Big rocks, this girl is hype, pops
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| The type of girl that cold did son wrong
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| She got the face that you wanna spend money on
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| Her man be smackin her up
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| Yeah, backin her up to the wall
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| «Get undressed, where you goin?
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| You ain’t playin me out with that hoein
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| Look in the mirror, check the jewels
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| Silly rabbit, you know the rules»
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| But he had to leave on another deal
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| So she’s out there with sex appeal
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| It’s the weekend, time for freakin, she’s sneakin
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| Outside, tellin her homegirls, «We can
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| Do the do, with whoever we want to
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| Cause we’re the fly girl crew»
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| Not knowin her man messed up the money
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| Ridin around, thinkin everything’s funny
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| Went in a disco, came outside
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| Somebody pushed her in a beat up ride
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| She had to pay for her man’s mistakes
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| They shot her in the head
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| That’s the breaks |