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(feat. Juelz Santana, Hell Rell, JR Writer) |
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[Verse 1: Juelz Santana] |
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Been riding clean |
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Two hundred thousand dollar machines |
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Capital B with the wings |
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Flyin' in a flying spur |
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Grippin' on a iron berg, I in hurr |
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Shorty in dem designer, jeans |
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Damn, baby you lookin' kinda scrumptous |
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What are those Citizens Rocker Republics |
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Antique jeans, I'm a antique fiend |
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Let my antique sag off my antique ass |
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Crack for me, I'm back indeed |
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Bitch I'm all about my paper like a fax machine |
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On track like half your weed |
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Spit crack, two half a keys, that's a key |
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You can serve that to fiends |
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That be me, Santana |
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I'm ballin' like an athlete |
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You niggaz stinkin' it up like athlete's feet (Ill) |
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Yep, yep, I'm higher than the clouds |
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Flyer than the owl, hyper than the crowd |
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Screaming out liud, tell ya bitch calm down |
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There's no competitor better than a nigga like me |
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Etcetera, etcetera |
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I'm the hottest out, better check my temperature |
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Thermometer popped, can't check my temperature |
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Nope |
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[Hook: J.R. Writer] |
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You couldn't run wit' us |
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Listen, you don't stunt enough |
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I get it down, get it down, but my money up |
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Throw a couple bucks, show you how a baller do this |
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Lemme walk you through it, yup, it's more than music |
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[Verse 2: Hell Rell] |
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Drip, drip, baby that's the candy paint |
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Falling off the Ferrari while blowin' danky-dank |
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Love beef so I got my shooters on deck |
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On the ice so I threw the whole cooler on my neck |
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I take 'em to Divas, straight from a no-name hoe |
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But take 'em to my hood, show 'em my cocaine flow |
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They say this your other profession |
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Don't worry 'bout what I'm sellin' |
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Askin' too many questions, just carry my Smith & Wesson |
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Married to gettin' fresh, ya see this rock on my hand |
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What it cost me, ya know, a brick, about 1000 grams |
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Listen homie I'm the man, there's nothing you can tell me |
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Some many on ya head, 20 grand on the skully |
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Where do you shop, never seen those jeans |
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And I keep it G'd up like I'm Gino Greene |
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Ruger out in the streets, you see me grind |
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And the chrome rims shine on that DP-9 |
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It's Mr. Ruger |
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[Hook] |
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[Verse 3: Juelz Santana] |
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Cats talkin' 'bout it's time to give the winner some |
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Slow down boy, it's time to give the kid a run |
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Paper chaser, paper spender |
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And I was built for the ballin' like the Staples Center |
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Can I get a what what, maybe a ooh ooh |
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But for my homies out there, maybe a Soo-Woo Soo-Woo |
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Catch me riding round on the prowl |
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Lookin' for some girls gone wild |
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I put your chick int eh Coupe, and she thick and she cute |
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They love it when I hit the button, dismiss the roof |
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Damn, we just had a hardtop |
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Now look, this car got a bald spot |
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While your jaw drop, her draws drop |
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Damn, shorty got a bald spot |
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I'm rock-n-roll like Guns & Roses |
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The consequences of my guns is roses |
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I reload just to un-reload it |
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Life's a bitch and yep, we bonin', we open |
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[Hook] |