| We could marinate, get nice and and stack riches
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| (But it’s B.Y.O.B.) Bring your own bud, brew, and bitches
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| Ain’t no set trippin', actin' ill and don’t steal, for real
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| (You got’s to chill)
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| I woke up in my Tommy Hilfiger boxers at 10
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| From a knock at the door, but why they at my door for?
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| Oh, my peeps they got a half gallon, smiling
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| My talons totaled ten one empty round from putting it down
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| But now, my day is starting off Coca Cola and Remy Martin
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| Some of the homeys from L.A. and Carson want to throw a private party today
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| Threw on some Gautier and my Rolex link dressed to kill like Bernhard Goetz
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| My squad flex like Lee Haney
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| So it’s best I keeps myself on house arrest, 'cause never know, maybe
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| They might wind up in 429 Bauchet, locked away
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| Plus can’t keep the booty calls waiting, I’m marinating
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| Dialed up some micehead to see what’s crackin' tonight
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| She said she just broke up with her man
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| And since she free like Mandela, she bringin' a box of Philly pantellas
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| A capella, I got game like Lou Piniella made sure to tell her
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| Don’t bring no fellas, cherral, girl you can braid the tweed
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| And then you can show me how to do the pepper seed
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| Agreed, 'cause we get down like this on a regular, loungin'
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| Watchin' bootleged tapes, shooting jokes, your choice of imported smokes
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| Craps and cee-lo on the patio for more chips than bingo
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| Chips like the MGM casino
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| Just make sure your homegirls is single, so it’s popping
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| 'Cause ain’t nothing worse than fifth wheels that’s cockblocking
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| And knocking while I’m knocking talking about she ret' to go
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| I want some of your brown sugar while I bump D’Angelo
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| (Fo'sho) No special holiday, but sometimes just being alive is a reason for
|
| celebratin'
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| So we mariniatin'
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| I get around like Dolby Pro Logic
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| But running them streets too much get fools hated, incarcerated, or terminated
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| At the house we safely intoxicated, Nonoxynol-9 lubricated
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| Playing questions, everybody faded and now
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| We got the ladies undressing like 1st King strippers
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| Bouncin' on niggas balls like the LA Clippers
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| The phone rang, my little shorty said «What you up to, boo?»
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| Nothing, just chillin' like Bruh-Man on Martin do
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| See only when I’m tipsy, when my words start slurring
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| Do I get caught telling lies like Mark Fuhrman, so I’ll call you later
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| Drink was low, went to the stash and pulled out the XO
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| The T.U.'s is down for whatever
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| Let’s run more trains than the Metrorail
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| But y’all got to be out by two
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| I’m getting sleepy and plus my boo is coming through
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| So let the front door hit you where Ru Paul probably might
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| And everybody asking what’s up for tomorrow night |