| I’m Trapping with my weapon
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| Till they trap me in that fucking cell
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| Rap for sale, Drugs for sale
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| Everything is up for sale
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| Trying to bring my gun to hell, Hallelujah
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| Load the Ruger, Cock the Ruger
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| Aim it at your Mama, (Shoot Her) Fucking Loser
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| Pawn Shop, Bayonets, Revolvers
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| And some tape cassettes
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| Tax Man, Axe Man
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| We still out here collecting debt
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| Empty all your pockets
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| Prices right they need to pay up
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| Accessory to hitting licks, Alley Oops and layup
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| They make you famous
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| Then say the money change ya
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| But of course that money change us niggas
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| Ever seen a range my nigga
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| Hummer in the parking lot, you see me coming call the cops
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| Im Robert Horry corner shot
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| Rockets Jersey Camouflage
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| No limit tank, with them gold spinning things
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| Bitch it pours, when it rains
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| Whores be high as Brontosaurus twat
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| Took a couple grand in molly morph the glocc
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| Laser beam Shorty, Ed Hardy Print Ferrari
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| Feel the tire shop
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| Fuck whatever band you in
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| My bullet shells gargantuan
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| Got Cantonese and mandarins
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| Chinese hoes for laundering
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| Endless stacks of laundromats
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| My mail order brides are back
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| Redbones, Green Cards, Crystal Meth, and Value Packs
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| Chrome illusion spinners
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| Lug boots and a new jag
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| Yokohama tires for diamond studded doo-rag
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| Papa’s brand new bag, got the bones of Jimmy Hoffa
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| Super fly like Jimmy Snuka
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| With my jungle print chopper
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| You say you a gangsta, but you never pop nothing
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| We say you a wanksta, and you need to stop frontin'
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| Go to the dealership, and you never cop nothing
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| You been hustling a long time, and you ain’t got nothing
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| Damn homie
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| Damn homie
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| Damn homie |