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C4 to your door, no beef no more.
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I'm going, going, back, back, to Cali, Cali.
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You're just mad 'cause I got my dick sucked, and my balls licked.
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I've got seven MAC-11s, about eight .38s, nine 9s, ten MAC-10s. The shits never end, you can't touch my riches. Even if you have MC Hammer and them 3-5-7 bitches.
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Is Brooklyn in the house? Without a doubt, I'm the rapper with clout everybody yap about.
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Black and ugly as ever, however I stay Coogi down to the socks, rings and watch filled with Rocks.
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Who the fuck is this? Pagin' me at 5:46 in the morning. Crack of dawnin'. Now I'm yawnin', wipe the cold out my eye. See who's this pagin' me, and why?
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When I die? Fuck it, I wanna go to hell, 'cause I'm a piece of shit. It ain't hard to fuckin' tell.
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Fuck a holster, got the MAC-11 swingin' from my shoulder.
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I only got beef with those that violate me; I shall annihilate thee.
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Forget the telly, we just go to the crib, watch a movie in the Jacuzzi and smoke Ls while you do me.
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I'm blowin' up like you thought I would, call the crib up, same number same hood, its all good.
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Goodness Gracious The Paper! Where the Cash at? Where the Stash at?
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There's gonna' be a lotta slow singin' and flower bringin' if my burglar alarm starts ringin'.
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Birthdays was the worst days; now we sip champagne when we're thirsty.
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And if you don't know? Now you know, nigga.
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Never get high on your ownly supply.
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I love it when you call me Big Poppa; throw your hands in the air if you's a true player.
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Celebrate my escape, sold the Glock, bought some weight. Laid back, I got some money to make. Motherfucker!
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Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis. When I was dead broke, man, I couldn't picture this.
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Lyrically I'm untouchable, uncrushable. Getting mad blunted in the S-500.
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Damn right I like the life I live, 'cause I went from negative to positive.
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Peace to Ron G, Brucy B, Kid Capri, Funkmaster Flex, Lovebug Starsky.
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Kick in the door, waving the .44. All you heard was: 'Poppa, don't hit me no more.'