| D town fitted, turn to the back
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| With that east side repping ready for the attack
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| Checking the attire, its all white and black
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| With the black Twiztid embroidered up on the back
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| Guess who’s back, yep, it’s the tray side
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| And we put it down for life and ready to ride
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| Madrox and Monoxide, you ain’t heard
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| Got people in withdrawal anticipating our return
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| With everywhere you look, it ain’t looking good not at all
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| And everybody looking is waiting for you to fall
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| Now we desire to dominate that’s man’s natural instinct
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| And put it on the line like reputations and pink slips
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| We got the music, let it do what it do
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| And this stress weighin' the world, we gonna carry that too
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| And we gonna bury them fools and the rest in a cloak
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| At night and gonna strike like vengeance upon parasites
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| Now don’t y’all, not for one second
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| Think I won’t just BUSS YO' HEAD OPEN
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| Give me a reason to leave you breathing
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| That’s a point blank message to all the non-believers
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| O six Caddy, brand new daddy
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| Twenty eight grams in twenty little baggies
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| Got a little something in the back of my khakis
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| Cause I’m always getting threats that they wanting to kidnap me
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| Flames still burning and the hatred’s back
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| I got the chainsaw revving and bloodstains to match
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| I got you nervous like a reverend who got caught in the act
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| And you react like you did when he got whacked with the ax
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| Underestimated and medicated
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| I’m only hated and segregated from the people who never made it
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| I’ll be dead if I bowed out now Jack
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| I represent a portion of people who on the real they won’t allow that
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| They got us tatted on their neck, breast, chest and head
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| And undress the dead, enough said
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| We got a mark on your planet earth
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| You got a rack full of bootlegged shirts, the truth hurts
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| You’ve awoke a sleeping giant, all this like a lion
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| Your sawed off blasts leave all your mama’s crying
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| At the wake, ready to bake everybody in the front row
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| My aim is to put your relatives in a hole
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| Laying next to you stretched out in one big plot
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| With blood clots all over your head like polka dots
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| No gun shots, did it all with my Louisville slugger
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| Another notch added every time I beat a mother fucker
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| STOMP A MOTHA FUCKA! |
| Drag they bodies in they back yard
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| Chop heads and hands off of the corpse
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| The identity, I ain’t trying to see no time
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| It’s on, I scatter ashes where the sun don’t shine
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| And I do dirt with only close peoples of mine
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| Cause they real while you phony snitches out there dropping dimes
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| So give me one reason to get me to squeezing on another
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| And I’m a haul out and start cracking mother fuckers |