| This ones for them boys with the drugs in they house
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| This ones for them boys with the slugs in they mouth
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| This ones for them boys with the taps on they phone
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| They know the halfs on they zone, and peelin caps with the chrome
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| This one’s for them boys! |
| (Dirty hoodlums!)
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| This one’s for them boys! |
| (Hustlin!)
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| This one’s for them boys! |
| (Dirty hoodlums!)
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| This one’s for them boys! |
| (Hustlin!)
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| This is for the ones that’s making cheddar, that fetty, all about they hussle
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| Make a Def Jam out in the streets, without Russel
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| What’s so strange is that I came in this game
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| With the 1, 2 «Bang Bang», make your brains hang
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| And it is a thang Bitch, better have my muthafuckin fetty
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| Before I put this mm-mm to your head and make your shit look like spaggetti
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| Y’all ain’t ready, the hatchet slit you like a machete
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| Left hand bust the roscoe, right hand hold the whip steady
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| This ones for the boys from the darkest corners
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| To the streets of Hell, these boys ain’t no foreigners
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| And warrin' is every day, and the cost ain’t soft
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| Even when they miss, you still get a shoulder blown off
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| This ones for the boys who chew hollow tips like gum
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| And wash it down with everclear cause the care ain’t there
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| And these boys be the bad guys, and can’t switch
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| They put a bullet clean through your head and into your bitch
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| This is for them boys up all night, stuffing wax packs with heroin
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| Up on the block straight doing the Aero Flyn
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| Gettin money, everything you wear brand new
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| Pockets stay lumpy like grandma’s stew
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| When you true to the game, the game will be true to you
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| What up though, you’re ghost if I say so
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| Guns and ammo — I buy em buy the caseload
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| Then I get you hit for fifty pesos
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| This ones for this boy, a killjoy
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| Chick toy, shit, boy, I’m sick, boy
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| Click-bang go the 4−4, off go the shell
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| There go the po-po off into Hell
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| Oh well, I’m in motel, Hotel Six
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| And I got your chick on the tip of this dick
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| Now she taking it in, sinking it in, her titties I’m shakin 'em
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| And I don’t know when I’m be done
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| Then I’m a be busting my gun this ones for the boys saying fuck the 5−0
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| Fuck the 5−0 when it’s all about survival
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| Talkin to my pistol don’t help
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| My shotgun said «blasphemy» until I shot on myself
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| This one’s for the money figures, the go-getters, ice-rockers
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| Twenty-four seven non-stoppers
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| This ones for the pill poppers
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| Eh yo fuck that, this ones for the head-choppers
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| This one’s for the people livin down in them sewer pipes
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| Makin a living off of all that ain’t right
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| And this is for them witches that was tied to stakes
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| And for the killers that have seen me after death shakes
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| And them peddlers on the corner when it’s ice-cold
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| And dead bobies on the side of the road
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| This is for that part of the city that everybody warns about
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| Where throats get torn out |