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Nigga I ain't got no feelings |
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What the fuck you think this is? |
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I got no reason to live |
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So make your mind up |
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What you wanna do? |
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I make your family be missing you |
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Nigga I ain't got no feelings |
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What the fuck you think this is? |
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I got no reason to live |
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So make your mind up |
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What you wanna do? |
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I make your family be missing you |
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Verse 1: Slop & Patacico |
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Dustin' you off like dirty finger prints on evidence |
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Battlin' me ya dead like presidents |
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I'm Fresh like Prince, Jazzy like Jeff |
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The man just like Meth, |
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Crazy like Left plus jams is like Def |
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Wid a pen I'm king like Kurupt, |
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When I throw a style you betta duck |
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If you don't yo ass is outta luck |
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Don't fuck, wid the masta, |
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If I have to, the I'll blast ya |
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Then go to church to see my pastor |
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Why ya have to be like this |
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Me and the mic's tight like |
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Gladys Knight and the Pips |
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This year my son turned six, |
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Yo style's wack and you need to get that shit fixed |
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Representin' Jersey my raps hittin' harder than bricks |
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Kurupt |
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[Patacico] |
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I'm iller, realer, |
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Than ya local drug dealer |
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Come to my villa, |
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Meet the nine milla, |
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Lettin' off, |
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Where I stop you gettin' off, |
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Make you feel it juts like Latifah's kiss in Set It Off |
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You want war come on, |
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Put on the boxing gloves |
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People call me an artist in the canvas |
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Cause I draw blood, |
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That's what's up, |
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Wid the shit I manouver |
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Hit the losers wid a Luger |
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Than lay up in Aruba |
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I'm gon' be rappin' till you motherfuckas get sick ah me on the mic, |
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I'm sicker than ten niggas wid HIV, |
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Tracy, had the cico, the freako |
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Holdin' heat somewhere on Wall Sreet wid Sloppy Joe |
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You hear me though? |
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Hook |
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Verse 2: Slop, Patacico & Kurupt |
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My name is Stephen |
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I eat MCs for no apparent reason |
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It in you if you skeezin' I'm pleasin' |
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Those who dare, |
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I advise you not to stare |
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You be assed out like a flat tyre widout a spare |
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I declare war before I had to even the score |
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You got me hot like sand on the shore, |
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I'm runnin' the floor, like a ballerina, |
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I go back like Flava Flav in cold Medina |
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[Patacico] |
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I'm pregnant, but only in my mind |
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Hopin' my baby rhyme grows up to be a triple platinum album |
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I fell on, using the steel to do crimes |
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Smoked so many niggas they put up no smoking signs |
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Charismatic asthmatic, ballin' like Madden, |
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Cream, automatic attractive like a magnet |
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Speedin' like car racin', |
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Cream like carnation, |
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Burned out my Playstation while cats be scar facin', |
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Hey old lady, sorry's all I can say |
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By bills got me lookin' at pocket books, in a different way, |
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Fox got the bubbled eye Benz-o |
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I'm in the back of Kurupt flex truck playin' 64 Nintendo |
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[Kurupt] |
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Get peeled, skills in the fields |
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Raw dog raw deals, |
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Niggas either ill, fake or real |
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Penetrates I only heard ah tens and thirty eights |
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Ride as the niggas turnin' states and flippin' crates |
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Get lift like weights, |
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Bust and radiate spreadin' infections |
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Murderous mafia connections |
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I wanna feel touched like feelings |
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Start drillin' start ampin' out, |
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Hittin' wid autos campin' out, |
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Wid autos innovative calculative creative |
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Touched nigga, hectic, wid a couple seconds |
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A bust nigga, from a distance I can peep a fuck up |
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You on the Ave wid nuthin' but cash to get stuck up |
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Man them diamonds y'all got is nice, hot |
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Never seen cowards wid so much ice |
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I got blocks to get all that's got behind the scenes |
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Sellin' glocks, tech nines, sixteens and magazines |
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Zines, zines, zines....... |