| Who y’all talkin' to, man?
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| Uhh, check it out, check it out
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| This, here, goes out to all the niggas
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| That be fuckin' mad bitches
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| In other niggas cribs
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| Thinkin' shit is sweet
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| Nigga creep up on your ass, hahaha
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| Live niggas respect it—check it
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| I kicked flows for ya, kicked down doors for ya
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| Even left all my motherfuckin' hoes for ya
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| Niggas think Frankie pussy-whipped
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| Nigga, picture that, with a Kodak, Insta-ma-tac
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| We don’t get down like that
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| Lay my game down quite flat
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| Sweetness, where you parked at?
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| Petiteness, but that ass fat
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| She got a body make a nigga wanna eat that
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| I’m fuckin' with you
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| The bitch official, though, dick harder than a missile, yo
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| Try to hit, if she trippin', disappearin' like Arsenio
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| Yo, the bitch push a double-oh
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| With the five in front, probably a conniving stunt
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| Y’all drive in front, I’ma peel with her
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| Find the deal with her, she fuck around and steal, huh?
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| Then we all get laced
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| Televisions, Versace heaven, when I’m up in 'em
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| The shit she kicked, all the shit’s legit
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| She get dick from a player off the New York Knicks
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| Nigga tricked ridiculous, the shit was plush
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| She’s stressing me to fuck, like she was in a rush
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| We fucked in his bed, quite dangerous
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| I’m in his ass while he playing 'gainst the Utah Jazz
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| My 112, CD blast, I was past
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| She came twice, I came last, roll the grass
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| She giggle, saying «I'm smoking on home-grown»
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| Then I heard the moan, «Honey, I’m home!»
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| Yep, tote chrome for situations like this
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| I’m up in his broad, I know he won’t like this
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| Now I’m like, «Bitch, you better talk to him
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| Before this fifth put a spark to him
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| Fuck around, shit get dark to him, put a part through him
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| Lose a major part to him—arm, leg…»
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| She beggin' me to stop but this cat gettin' closer
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| Gettin' hot like a toaster, I cocks the toast, ugh
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| Before my eyes could blink
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| She screams out, «Honey, bring me up somethin' to drink!»
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| He go back downstairs, more time to think
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| Her brain racing, she’s telling me to stay patient
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| She don’t know I’m cool as a fan
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| Gat in hand, I don’t wanna blast her man
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| But I can and I will, though; |
| I’m tryna chill though
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| Even though situation looking kinda ill, yo
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| It came to me like a song I wrote
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| Told the bitch, «Gimme your scarf, pillowcase, and rope»
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| Got dressed quick, tied the scarf around my face
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| Roped the bitch up, gagged her mouth with the pillowcase
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| Play the cut, nigga coming off some Love Potion shit
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| Flash the heat on 'em, he stood emotionless
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| Dropped the glass screaming, «Don't blast, here’s the stash!
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| A hundred cash! |
| Just don’t shoot my ass, please!»
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| Nigga pulling mad Gs out the floor
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| Put stacks in a Prada knapsack, hit the door
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| Grab the keys to the five, call my niggas on the cell
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| «Bring some weed, I got a story to tell», uhh…
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| Yo man, y’all niggas ain’t gonna believe what the fuck happened to me.
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| Remember that bitch I left the club with man? |
| Yo, freaky yo. |
| I’m up in this
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| bitch playa this bitch fuckin' run them ol' Knick ass niggas and shit.
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| I’m up in the spot, so. |
| I don’t know, I don’t know. |
| One of them six-five
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| niggas, I don’t know. |
| Anyway, I’m up in the motherfuckin' spot. |
| So boom I’m up
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| in the pussy, whatever whatever. |
| I sparks up some lah, Pop Duke creeps up in on
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| some, must have been rained out or something because he’s in the spot.
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| Had me scared, had me scared to death, I was shook, Daddy—but I forget I had
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| my Roscoe on me. |
| Always. |
| You know how we do. |
| So anyway the nigga comes up the
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| stairs, he creepin' up the steps, the bitch all shook she sends the nigga back
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| downstairs to get some drinks and shit. |
| She gettin' mad nervous,
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| I said fuck that man! |
| I’m the nigga, you know how we do it, nigga,
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| ransom note style put the scarf around my motherfuckin' face. |
| Gagged that
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| bitch up, played the kizzack. |
| Soon this nigga comes up in the spot,
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| flash the Desert in his face he drops the glass. |
| Looked like the nigga pissed
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| on his-self or somethin, word to mother! |
| Ahh fuck it. |
| This nigga runs dead to
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| the floor, peels up the carpet, start givin' me mad papers, mad papers.
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| (I told you that bitch was a sheisty bitch cuz! Word to mother I used to fuck
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| her cousin' but you ain’t know that! |
| You wouldn’t know that shit. |
| Really though.
|
| ) I threw all that motherfuckin' money up in the Prada knapsack.
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| Two words, I’m gone! |
| (No doubt, no doubt… no doubt!) Yo nigga got some lye,
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| y’all got some lye? |