| Fight back, fight back
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| Yeah
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| So I’m marinating at home, sippin' cheap wine in the recline
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| I’m on bottle two, so this beast fine
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| Bitch givin' me a lap dance, but honey heavy
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| She weigh more than a 3500 Chevy
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| She lifted her belly, (Bush) wack surprise
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| Pussy had fro like the Jackson 5
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| Just then, rounds, rounds, get down
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| They wanna nix this wicked clown
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| I took a look, the girl was cooked, her head exploded
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| Reached for the Uzi at my foot, and I unloaded
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| But them hoes got away in time
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| And my bitch headless, but she’ll be fine
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| I shot back in the passion’s heat
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| Killed somebody grandma across the street (Damn)
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| They all gon' die, no, they can’t hide
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| As soon as we find out who
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| We gonna ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
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| And open fuckin' fire (Clowns, bitch)
|
| We gonna ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
|
| And burn our fuckin' tires (Whoop, whoop)
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| The Southwest Side is like Baghdad, yeah
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| People get killed for a gang rag, yeah
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| If you’re my enemy, I’ll make your brain hang, yeah
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| Out the side of your head, big game of tag, huh
|
| You’re it, bitch, «it» being dead
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| And it was a basehead chick who said
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| Her brother’s boys, The Murder Rats
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| Was who tried to kill me, I heard that
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| Pow, bitch, head paints the wall
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| Bitch dead, but she ain’t fall
|
| Still propped up, vacant look in her eyes
|
| Death’s quite the surprise
|
| We gonna ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
|
| And open fuckin' fire (Clowns, bitch)
|
| We gonna ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
|
| And burn our fuckin' tires (Whoop, whoop)
|
| Looking for revenge, three hours
|
| Where the fuck are these bitch-ass cowards?
|
| Searching the ghetto zone, all sides of it
|
| Like pussy holes, they’re rarely seen in public
|
| We asked Big Red and Meth Head Sally
|
| Yeah, I took a sec and got head in the alley
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| We went back home, almost got inside
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| But J called, he found 'em
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| Shaggy, yo, them cocksuckers tried to kill you (To kill you)
|
| Dumping hot slugs through your home, what the fuck?
|
| Let’s ride and go make some headlines (Some headlines)
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| Five dead in the ghetto zone, whoop, whoop
|
| Duck low, rode by three times, triple checkin' (It's them!)
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| And as best we reckon, it’s them
|
| Slangin' that bath salt and that spice
|
| Today, though, bad advice
|
| Four scrubs in a bucket, pullin' up dumpin'
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| Empty the full clip, quickly bust 'em
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| Pop, pap, pop, pap, pop, pap (Stop that)
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| Shot dead all five
|
| We had to ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
|
| And open fuckin' fire (Move, bitch)
|
| We had to ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
|
| And burn our fuckin' tires (Whoop, whoop)
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| Ha-ha-ha-ha
|
| No one even called the police, ha-ha-ha
|
| Dead on the street all damn week, okay
|
| We had to ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
|
| And open fuckin' fire (Move, bitch)
|
| We had to ride down to West Vernor Avenue (Hey)
|
| And burn our fuckin' tires (Whoop, whoop)
|
| Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh
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| Willaby’s words of wisdom, bitch
|
| Don’t expect peace and tranquility
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| Without at least some hostility, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
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| And if you’re on easy street, bitch
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| You’ve got some potholes comin'
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| Some are gonna be so deep
|
| You can look down 'em and see old Beelzebub himself (Brother)
|
| Pinchin' a hot loaf
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| Like, what the fuck? |