| Aye yo, I had to Vert the Vanquish
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| Basquiats in the bandos, we tasteless
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| S.E. |
| Gang, hammer on the waist
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| Shit, leavin' the club wasted, waivin' it in niggas faces
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| Louis reekin' out my fuckin' Porche
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| Sweepin' coke off of marble floors
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| Madusa head on the buckle, shit
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| I came with the semi-LV's on the luggages
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| Blood bottoms with the spikes on it
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| Canary choke, par, pink ice on it
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| Fresh new MAC on the dresser chillin'
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| Watchin' Run’s House, daydreamin' 'bout Vanessa Simmons
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| Playin' chess on the luggage
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| So now these unzipped match the Lacquered Phil bucket
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| Smell the dope on me at the little homie graduation
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| He caught his first body, told him, «congratulations»
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| Rockin' minks at the Broner fight
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| If the four pound don’t then the chopper might
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| How the fuck you 'gon do me harm, nigga?
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| I’m surrounded by shooters, I’m Lebron nigga
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| Shootin' like Curry nigga
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| Do you like Flip when Birdie ripped him
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| Two .45's on me like Jimmy Jump
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| MAC in the Reagan era, bag in the baby’s trunk
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| Python on the Just Don
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| Fendi dinner plates with the Gold Bond
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| Twistin' up the gas in a Versace store
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| Spent so much cash they gotta lock the door
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| The SLS coke white
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| Free Sly Green, they gave my nigga four lifes
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| This the kind of shit the game miss, hurricane wrist
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| In the kitchen whippin' up a cocaine dish
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| Stop bink at the dice game
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| Catch him in the yard with the knife gang
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| Niggas ain’t fuckin' with my night game
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| Forty for the Hublot, that was light change
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| Couple MACs in my bitch Birkin
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| Throw him off the roof now he fly for certain
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| And bitch I want all the cash
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| Conway, Westside Gunn, Hall and Nash, nigga
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| Griselda, by Fashion Rebels |