| Aiyo, I terrorize Dawson’s Creek, the black sheep
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| My thoughts is so deep, recite rhymes in my sleep
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| Some call it sleep talking, I call it sleep flowing
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| Glocks and AK’s, grenades and tech nines
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| Hot lead from the rhyme, paralyze your spine
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| Shine like divine, killing mankind
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| Verbal intellect, yeah, you gotta rewind
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| Like the hands of time, or get shot in your brain
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| Bullets falling out your mind, the brown skinned Arabian Sandman
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| Shine like the sun, my fans catch tans
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| My CD’s contraband, yeah, multiple shots hit the Billboard
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| Shatter your SoundScan, yeah, I see right through your schemes and plans
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| It’s a wrap like smashing rubberbands
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| Father in love, father in day
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| Father, take the guns away
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| Father and teacher, live the life
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| For my people, in the sky
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| Aiyo, niggas wanna murder Born Prince Allah
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| But I drive around in bulletproof cars
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| Armani suits, Gucci boots
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| Walk with a bop, and whistle like a flute
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| I blew like Caesar, money receiver
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| No matter old school or new school skeezers
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| Vocalubary leaking through the speakers
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| Granddaddy Flow sneakers, rest in peace to Grym Reaper
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| Verbal nine millimeter, assassinate through the media
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| Pussy is sweet, but yeah ya’ll niggas is sweeter
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| I slay comrades, they roam like nomads
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| Raspberry blue Jag', bulletproof tinted glass
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| In case snipers wanna snipe that ass
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| Camouflage lime green fatigues
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| Show my daughter how to bust a gun, at 13
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| I’m a Staten Island from the old school like Cold Chillin' |