| Must I really state my name, state my claim
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| What I’m into, things I’ve been through
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| More or less, you know about the cases
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| You know my life is these rapper’s career’s basis
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| Behind the wheel with them faces
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| Foreign broads and them foreign cars
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| Pray and hope that I’m falling off
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| Nah my man, I’m holding on
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| Something new, in that Bugatti blue
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| Boss, boss, I leave them boys sick
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| Forty-eight bosses just to prelude to
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| The evils these cold streets made me do
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| Ratchets I’ve blazed, rivals I’ve buried
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| Millions I’ve spent to story-line buries
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| Y’all be knowing how hard I roll
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| Ain’t got to tell you young bloods, Ya’ll all know!
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| I ain’t got to talk about it
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| Tell New York about it
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| California know about it
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| H-Town know about it
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| Arizona know about it
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| Chi-Town know about it
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| Ain’t got to flow about it
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| Must I really go on, on a song about my time
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| And fights on all amounts, bidding with lights
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| Old timers keeping my head to the script
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| Let this time serve you, have faith in God kid
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| Must I really say, I shot a few goons
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| But for the most part, think the realest is cool
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| Guess I’d say I searched my soul, but found nothing new
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| Just what was already there, things that I already knew
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| And must I talk about my time in the box?
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| Doing sly feds, twenty-three on the cops
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| In the next cell, my partner was locked
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| Going through hell, since the rock |