| You want lessons?
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| It’s to get with it, we out nigga
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| Come on!
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| I came into the party with my fly Wu-Wear shit on
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| Two hundred in, my teeth flex, gotta throw my hit on
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| Movin through the crowd with my shines hangin out
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| Hit the bar, for a Henney straight, no chaser
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| Guzzle it down, honies crowdin around the Killa Bee
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| Buy you a drink, you kidding? |
| Love, you got to be
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| Since you on my dick, won’t you buy me a drink?
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| Chewin my ear off, tellin me that she met me in the rink
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| I don’t get tricky, got too much G
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| Got a degree in P.I.M.P-alogy, acknowledge me
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| Not a playa, teach these niggas how to be, I’m ?Wallabeeneny?
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| Thugs throw it up, everytime they see me
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| I hollow back, «Where the bats at?»
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| Baseball fitted hat, 7−1-8ths, New York Yanks'
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| She was Miss Elliot Trace, from her shoes to her face
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| With a body just like a Ferrari shape
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| She asks me, «How you get that cut on your face»?
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| That’s when the DJ shouted out, «Shyheim's in the place»
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| I was high off the notion and case
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| It must have been her birthday cuz she was holdin mad cake
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| Her man holdin no weight
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| He low-budget, she told me we was fluckin
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| We with two of her friends and three of her cousins
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| We in the corner whinin, my whole team’s shinin
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| It’s time to go when these fake rappers start rhymin
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| For real son
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| You know the club scene, 7−40, I beam
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| You know the club scene, big icy links and minks
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| You know the club scene, fuck around and get shot
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| You know the club scene, niggas spend all they got
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| You know the club scene, shorty, she lookin hot
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| You know the club scene, niggas be on Bra'
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| You know the club scene, you better tuck your watch
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| You know the club scene, we flossin in the parkin lot
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| There’s a party goin on, down the blizz-ock
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| In this little hot box, but you might get shot
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| Cuz there’s a lot of Knuckleheadz, who’ll be playin this club
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| A hole in the wall, I got my gun in, ain’t searchin at all
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| I watch you hand-to-hand niggas, that be tryin to ball
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| With your little ghetto-fame, Tech to snatch your chain
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| They used to call him Killa, now Got-Murdered his name
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| I smack Earth, Wind & Fire out lames
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| Take money, thuggin ain’t a thing
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| I got my drink in my right hand, left hand in my pants
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| I don’t dance, just be loungin in my B-boy stance
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| Respect my gangsta, move like an army at war
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| Spit some Willy in the air, and we slid out the door
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| About a quarter to 4:00, jumped in the 4×4, smooth like velour
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| Say no more, every party I go to, I bring a bird home
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| Call me Cabosa Indiana Jones
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| I had this show O.T., at this venue called Ritz
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| I was rockin the mic, when I noticed this bitch
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| She was lickin her lips and her rubbin her tits
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| I can tell that she stripped, I had to politic
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| But she was with this achin bitch, Alienation bitch
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| Throwin peanuts in my Jif, makin me sick
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| Etcera, etcera, I’m liable to get rid of her
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| I don’t give a fuck
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| Took her in the bathroom, picked her up in the tub
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| I’m like a drug, I be stalkin the club
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| Ladies beware, eighteen and above, what?
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| I’m a heart-breaker, the mind-raper
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| That don’t spend no paper and don’t like bitches that wear makeup |