| All yall niggas better Jet cuz I’m a Giant
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| rap supplying, nigga that’s raw like a Lion
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| I come from Brooklyn, land of robbers and Steelers
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| and drug dealers, that’s more truck than eighteen wheelers
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| and last week this nigga named Ben, this drug Chief
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| from Brownsville that got stuck up and now it’s beef
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| cuz words out, that it was Shaquan from Cypress Hills
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| who came off, with two hundred thou in small bills
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| But he forgot a Cardinal rule of the street
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| you do dirt, you keep your mouth shut, or feel the heat
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| stupid! |
| The very next day he bought a Benz
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| and came back 'round the way waving to his friends
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| his brand new 420 was milked like a Cow-
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| Boy, screaming, «How ya’ll like me now?»
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| but you know how niggas is, they see and they Hawk
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| they get jealous when you pop shit, and then they talk
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| and Ben got hoes on the streets as well
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| one of Ben Gal’s overheard this kid Latrell
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| and he was saying, that he was down with Shaquan
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| and if he didn’t get a green Jaguar, then it was on he was mad, cuz his man, was living larger
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| and he was still driving 'round his mom’s dodge Charger
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| with no rims and beat up timbs, he played us sayin he’d hold the dough, the feds could Raidas
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| and in two weeks, everybody’d get they cut
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| when Ben found out it was them he said «what?»
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| he got on the phone and called his little gun Packers
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| cuz they dressed like Black Panthers and drive geo trackers
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| and Broncos, with big ass tires and dark tint
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| and they all carried dessert Eagles, that’s how it went
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| (Verse Two)
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| It’s sunday night and my team just lost
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| plus the Dolphins got blown out by Randy Moss
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| and the Vikings, I’m inside the food spot on new lots
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| gettin some chicken, that’s spicy hot
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| with french fries, «Give me the combo, number 3»
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| I hear *car horn* I look outside and who I see?
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| I see Shaquan, pushing his Benz, it’s pearl white
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| with white leather, he four deep, and looking tight
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| in his new whip, he’s with these cats I’ve never seen
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| I can tell, they ain’t no Saints, they lookin’mean
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| he pulls up, in front of this weed spot, disguised
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| and jumps out, drinking his Colt 45
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| in a tall can, he go the the door and start breakin'
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| on Red, who run the spot, this old Jamaican
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| like forty-nine or fifty years old, he’s making ends
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| and Shaquan be fuckin with, one of Red’s Kins
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| named Keisha, but anyway, they arguing
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| these three jeeps roll pass fast in unison
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| they make u-turns, and I’m like «Yo, not being rude
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| but word up, hurry the fuck up with my food»
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| but it’s too late, the first jeep, the one in the lead
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| Rams the back of the benz at full speed
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| and all I could do is whistle
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| and watch bullets fly through the windshield like Patriot missles
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| the other two jeeps, jet black as Falcons pull up screeching
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| but Shaquan ain’t reaching
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| four or five cats jump out, holding heat
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| and check on the niggas dead up in the back seat
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| Red the Jamaican thows his hands in the air
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| he like, «Bloodclot…whats all of this Buccaneer?»
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| but niggas ain’t care if he was down with them or not
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| wrong place, wrong time, and they both got shot (gun blast)
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| thirty minutes later, police is everywhere
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| the murder scene is way to grizzly for me to Bear
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| so for players, better peep this song
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| when you on top, feeling yourself, its Not For Long (echo to fade)
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| Yeah… to all my beats and rhymes niggas… yeah…M.A…J-Love |