| Ay-yo I talk what I talk, who gon' shut me up?
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| Why you think of blowin' me up, or blowin' the dutch
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| Keep a double 4 in the clutch
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| Staten Island, Lounge Lo
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| Park Hill Projects, and that’s what’s up!
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| Keep it commin', spit fire daddy
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| And ya’ll niggas is lame, before I go just remember the name
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| I’m in the hood where they shoot guns by the seconds
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| You in the hood where they shoot guns indirected
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| L.O.B.B. |
| see TV, call B. I
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| Tell him to tell D.I. |
| to come see me
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| Wit' a bag of knuckle-head
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| And who am I to give a fuck about the next man?
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| Who care if he fuckin' dead
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| Me, right! |
| Is gon' spaz on ya’ll, spaz on ya’ll
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| Got to get my cash on ya’ll
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| I got a brick ta work, I said ya’ll can’t have none
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| Ya’ll can’t have none, plus I got a chick ta work
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| My score is nice, don’t ask about me twice
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| Test 3 times, it’ll cost ya life
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| Gotta stripper that’ll give ya no ice
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| Nah’mean? |
| And the same bitch will clipper ya pipe
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| Fuck wit me!
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| Gotta strong circle that’ll hurt you, from little babies grown-ups
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| Plus them outta town niggas that’ll murk you
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| That’s what’s happenin', you done had it
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| Everybody hood got people that ratted
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| That’s what’s happenin', ya’ll done had it
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| Everybody hood got people that ratted
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| You cats is pink on the inside, like dispersement forms
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| We played the cell houses, ya’ll played in dorms
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| Professional, international poster kid
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| Big crimes came wit' big biz
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| New York’s wildest rookie, since Grandmaster Flash
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| Big boys here now
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| Slow down you might crash
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| We rule all cash, and I ain’t listenin' to ya’ll niggas
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| Spit these lines for my niggas
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| Stick up game ridiculous
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| I bust a vein in the microphone
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| Fell in love with the smell of the sweat on the poem
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| Blood on my blade, shit on my hands from my knife, humble
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| But cats don’t listen, so why warn em?
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| Music will have you? |
| mourning extortem?
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| New York’s divine leaders
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| I tell a story for em', perform bops
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| Bring forth wild brothers together in the forum
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| Spittin' with confidence
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| I thought I’d double up on em', I thought I’d double up on em'
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| There ain’t many street kids left
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| I could say their names in about one breath
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| I could count your mans on about one hand
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| Take it from the words of a true man’s man
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| The streets forever talkin', dead men walkin'
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| Window hawkin', yo the fiends come stalkin'
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| Ya’ll cats had it
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| It was either him, her, or you
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| Or somebody you knew that done ratted
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| The Shaolin, everyone knows everything
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| It’s scary, cut they tongue, shits hairy
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| The so called mans you got, wanna Lancelot you
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| And got you in a trance that locked you
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| Government informants, rat fuckin' bicthes
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| Tell’tale snitches, 6 foot ditches
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| Wanna talk about with who and where and what’cha do
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| And if they told on him, then they’ll tell on you |