| Guess who’s back, motherfuckers?!
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| Out with the old, in with the new
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| So, just when I thought I was out…
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| They pull me back in!
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| It’s the Roc, you bastards!
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| Let’s take it back to the street…
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| (Benji style, Benji style, Benji style…)
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| Look at these fuckin' guys
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| They’re not hungry anymore
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| They’re sloppy
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| The way they think, the way they move
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| Remember me, man?
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| Pain In Da Ass from the Roc?
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| Okay, we’re reloaded!
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| Freeway!
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| Best spitter, rapper — I’m a bitter animal
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| Rock icy charms, bear arms that’s mechanical
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| Burnt down booths, burnt beats, they all flammable
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| It’s the return of the Roc, bitch
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| The Loch Ness Monster of rap
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| Still here after a decade (I'm here)
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| You sick of all this bullshit rap? |
| Here’s your antidote
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| Flame things, we the A-Team, no Hannibal
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| Jay-Z my nigga, kill a nigga over camel toes
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| Bitch, you say it’s a Ace of Spades, I’ll break your legs
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| Hit you with the sawed-off, gettin' ate
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| You’ll make the news
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| I’m willin' to break out the Uz to get the pay
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| And wake up on these niggas to make my day, and make 'em move
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| Right to the East, and I represent for the East Coast
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| If we go to work, I got.44s in each holster
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| Furthermore, the.44 revolver’ll put you under more
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| You dyke bitches one-sided
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| This ain’t no tug of war
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| Naw!
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| (You gotta look at a guy’s eyes next to you)
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| (You're gonna see a guy who’s willing to sacrifice his life for the good of
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| this squad)
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| (That's what loyalty’s about — that’s what Roc-A-Fella's about)
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| (That's all it’s ever been, gentlemen…)
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| Big watch, heavy chain, stones whiter than cocaine
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| Chyeah they all lames, gassed up off propane
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| No indirect, we come straight at your neck
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| Like them GD boys, we demanding the check
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| I’m a man of respect
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| Before I met ya, I never knew ya
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| It’s all up in this, everything goes on a ruler
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| Whips for my chicks, bag of guns for my shooters
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| And I be blowin' Buddha, sippin' slushies in Bermuda
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| I’m a D-Boy, rap is just my decoy
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| Homie, you ain’t sure enough or cut up like Bruce Lee, boy
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| George Jetson, to your lil' youngins you just Elroy
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| Y’all playin' with water guns, we playin' with real toys
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| Clips that clear the mall out, make the love back down
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| Ts with your picture on it, roses in the background
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| Turn out your lights, no Teddy P. you come through Nicetown
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| Where your fake friends come around when the price down
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| Alright, clown?
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| (Times have changed — where’s all the gangsters at?)
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| (Now all I see is skinny jeans and dancers, I don’t dance)
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| (But some shit never changes, like the Roc)
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| Dark Rays, Marc J’s, my nigga with a tall K
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| From Killadelph to Marcy, with Jigga at the Barclay
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| We kill them niggas easy
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| Like «fuck, I had a hard day»
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| We walk up, not far away, we shoot right through that hard clay
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| Bullets like Brady, ya vest can’t help ya
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| I form you gon' catch everything, West welcome
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| Salsa dancin' on this shit, Victor Cruz
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| Ridin' with the chopper like I ain’t got shit to lose
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| I’m a make the first page, every channel, peep the news
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| Neef pull out a bag of straps, let our shooters pick and choose
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| I’m a lively nigga’s child, boy, you niggas dead (I tell ya)
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| But a heavy award on niggas' heads
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| Kill 'em quicker than cancer, don’t fuck with a nigga bread
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| It’s the Roc, you bastards, a classic, you niggas scared?
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| Third time’s a charm, they say three strikes you out
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| Well I rumble, I’ll fight again, I will Marquez a bout
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| (See, you missin' what we had)
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| (We stay on the streets)
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| (And you can forget about the glitz and the glamour, cause they don’t mean shit)
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| (Real hustlers stay on their grind)
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| (No matter how much you have, you can always use more)
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| I’m a, street nigga, real coke flipper
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| I got some freaks that’ll deep-throat niggas
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| Bullets that’ll hit ya, sittin' in that brick house
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| Or, niggas’ll catch you slippin', comin' out your bitch house
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| Or, goin' to the store for that early-morning Dutch
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| Hop out the cut with the mack like «what up?»
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| If you ever disrespect us, talkin' all reckless
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| You ain’t never make enough money for you to check us
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| Them boys back at it, white sheets for the static
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| Yellow tape’s for the scene,.45 mixed from the 'matic |
| So trust me, you don’t want nothin', homie
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| I put this thing back together, no instructions, homie
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| And then I’m in the club, bottle sippin', model gettin', hater dissin'
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| You niggas ain’t heard me when I said it, ain’t no competition
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| It’s the Roc — ain’t nothin' stopped
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| I still’ll set up shop on any block
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| Motherfucker!
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| (Here at the Roc, we use words like familia, hood, and honor)
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| (We use these as a backbone of a life meant defending something)
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| (You use it as a punch line)
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| (I suggest you pick up a mic)
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| Tippin' strippers, lickin' pictures with niggas that should’ve been dead
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| They said «Crack, we respect the fact that you in here»
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| Blowin' hoop smoke, thick like a Newport
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| Life too short, good to see some old friends here
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| PA and BK, back up in the CH
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| A-N-G, somebody call up the DA
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| Pedro C, you know me, we with Philippe
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| Between him and Ceeto, that work be finito
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| Wide by the ego, get hit in the causeway
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| One thing I learned from Jay is to do it my way
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| The sweetest taboo, bitch, you look like Shaday
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| Forehead big, and that ass Louis Thunder
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| Tryin' eat, so, I’m a see my brother for an entrée
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| Memphis Bleek know, he can call on his Property compadres
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| What they say out in the A? |
| They’re my partners now
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| Remember them Roc-A-Fella days? |
| We was wildin' then
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| It’s the Roc, motherfuckers!
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| Snitch that!
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| Twenty years deep in this game
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| We make history on a daily basis
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| The reign is never over
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| It’s only just begun |