| They say guns kill people, stupid motherfuckers with guns kill people
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| And I hang, with stupid motherfuckers
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| It start to clip, click-clack blucker-bluck
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| It start to clip, click-clack blucker-bluck
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| Fo' niggas in a slab, dressed in black clothes
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| Filling up the clip, smoke blowing out they nose
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| Niggas trying to play Zilla, they owe the kid do'
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| The playa already emotionally fell, for a stripper ho
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| Oldest trick in the book, but fuck it it still works
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| Niggas think with they other head, when it come to them skirts
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| Waiting for Strawberry, to ring the burner celly
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| Tell us when she ready, and we storming the telly
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| Patiently waiting, and the cell phone vibrates
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| Text message received, room 228
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| Tightened up my gloves, and walked up the stairs
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| Tell Brown to grab a hoody, so we can cover up that bare
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| Now y’all know Zilla, bout to really lose his cool
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| Peeped through the window, this nigga rocking new dues
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| Kicked in the door, one shot to the ceiling
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| Then one to the leg, fuck boy where’s my bread
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| Now Strawberry you can go, foxy I’ll holla at you later
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| Get with Double Double, he’ll get you straight on that paper
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| She leave out the do', we tie his clown ass up
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| Nigga in debt with the kid, we gon fuck his bum ass up
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| Smack passed this nigga cell phone, here’s the address for them chippers
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| Don’t try nothing stupid, them AK’s will rip you
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| And I was willing to go out, like Sylvester in Rocky
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| Guarantee I’ll pop it, over the bread in my pocket
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| Disrespect me nigga, I tried to let it slide
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| Then we pulled up, see 24's on your ride
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| New jewels on your neck, studs in your ear
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| Ring is stung, like I can’t make it disappear
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| Cell phone rings, money there you work fast
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| Just when I thought, I was bout to smoke your bitch ass
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| Now I got my bread, I’m chilling I ain’t gon kill him
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| (fuck it Tum let’s charge these niggas), fuck it Gram kill him |