| I’m a H-Town nigga, representing Southside
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| Sitting on chrome, and my body frame wide
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| Wood block guy, sitting on buck eyed
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| See a pair of thick thighs, ask her do you wanna ride
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| Of course she do, so she jumped right in Cause it’s her first time, even sitting in a Benz
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| Five hundred series, with the light blue lens
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| And you can hear the wind, whenever the rims spin
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| Sitting in my low, and we watching TV
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| She said ain’t you Big H.A.W.K., from the S.U.C.
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| Of course it’s me, can’t you 20−20 see
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| And plus the vision from my chain, had your vision blurry
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| I could tell by her eye, she was captured by the fame
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| Said she loved it, just spell my name
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| She was on dang-a-lang, cause I could rap and I could sing
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| And I could tell she was lame, to this grown man’s game
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| Here’s a little something for the boppers in the club (yeah)
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| All my real thugs, pulling up on dubs (yeah)
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| Throw your hands up, show a real nigga love
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| (nigga) nigga what (nigga) nigga what (nigga) nigga what (nigga what)
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| Dead End ringleader, and I’m calling the shots
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| Use to push crack rock, till I hit the jackpot
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| Hidden in a stash spot, got the 4−4 cocked
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| Me and Jack we a team, like Captain Kirk and Spock
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| I’m a former quarter sacker, ran with car jackers
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| Now a rapper turned actor, but still a pistol packer
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| Don’t work for the cracker, unless it’s for mills
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| Cause I’m funky than I’m fired, won’t pay my bills
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| Showing skills make mills, with the lyrics I spill
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| And I’d be in jail, if looks could kill
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| Cause I love to make do', love to spit flows
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| Whether rain sleet or snow, like Black Rob on Whoa
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| Ten G’s a show, if you ask for promo
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| What’s up Big H.A.W.K., well the answer is no Gotta go gotta go, cause it’s crunk in the club
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| Got everybody screaming, nigga what nigga what
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| Now it’s the last verse, so it’s a must I wreck
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| For my day one niggaz, on them grey cassettes
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| Cause I’m far from a rookie, I’m a certified vet
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| And I ain’t even broke a sweat, cause I ain’t finished yet
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| Even got all the haters, jumping all up on it
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| And everytime you see me, it’s a Kodak moment
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| Now sticks and stones, won’t break my bones
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| And since Fat Pat gone, I’m gon add to the throne
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| I’m the General in charge, so call me sire
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| And after this plateau, it don’t get no higher
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| I spit rapid fire, and I don’t misfire
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| A lyrical high wire, hotter than a blow dryer
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| As I start to perspire, from this verbal assault
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| My career will catapult, and it ain’t my fault
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| I’m too hard to swalla, and too big to over look
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| And the best way to end this, is with the hook |