| Remember me, when I use to write my rhymes in class
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| At Dick Dall Middle School, all them niggas would laugh
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| Telling me I would never make it, cause I rap too fast
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| I was desperately trying to find out, how to go from scraps to cash
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| Remember, how y’all use to chase me home from school
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| Just cause I sported corduroy britches, and Pro Wing shoes
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| I use to have a lunch card, cause them times was hard
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| Since the seven people living in one house, with no cars in the yard
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| I remember stressing so hard, I couldn’t keep my focus
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| My only love was for extras, and overs
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| Fuck all you niggas, don’t make me slap the fuck out all you niggas
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| If it ain’t related to making paper, I ain’t calling you niggas
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| I bet Mo City remember, when I took it over with rapping
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| 51−11 Ridgevan, moving that crack bitch I was stacking
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| Residuals redeemingly, I was raw mayn raw caine
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| Rapidly running my neighborhood, I was the law mayn
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| 'Member when I dropped my first album, in '98
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| Fucking with Herman Fisher, but now that nigga hate me he’s a cake
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| Suppose to be mad at me, tal’n bout I owe him some change
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| Nigga just mad cause they can’t eat with me, I eat with Lil' James
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| Rap-A-Lot Mafia my man, y’all remember the Maab
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| This isn’t Den-Den and Z-Ro, y’all better remember the squad
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| Two different labels but the same cable, remember we connected
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| Woodfair to Missouri City, two block of Screwed Up Texas
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| Remember me, I’m the one they laughed at in all my classes
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| They use to rank on my low budget clothes, and my glasses
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| Remember me, the same one they use to call egghead
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| Now I play with fed bread, and sleep on Gucci bed spreads
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| I remember the winters in the hood, no heat cold nights
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| No gas no lights, a ghetto low life
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| So my flow twice as strong, from the memories
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| I remember when my closest homies, turned to enemies
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| See niggas tend to be, down when your bread up
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| But when you in the quicksand, they frown cause your legs stuck
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| Yeah I remember that, so you remember this
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| Hard times be my fuel, so I ain’t finna quit
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| I vividly, R-E-M-E-M-B-E-R
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| Craig up in the E-R, bloody getting CPR
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| So before, the reaper come and turn me to a memory
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| I endlessly spit the heat, for the people to remember me
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| Me P.O.P., so many forgot bout
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| But not I, this for those who remember little Popeye
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| And I remember hot guys, ridiculed the flow
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| Now I’m front and center nigga, haters finna do me so
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| Shit I remember back in the game, it was tough
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| No matter what a nigga had, it was never enough
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| See if I had five I wanted ten, and if I had ten I wanted twenty
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| Fuck having some, shit I wanted plenty
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| Back in the gap, when I first hit the block
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| With my first 25, and a hand full of rocks
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| Posted up at Samantha house on the West, on the porch
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| Ready to give my nigga some work, or give him the torch
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| I remember telling my T, I wasn’t going to college
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| And was headed to the streets, to get the rest of my knowledge
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| That broke her heart, and for that I had to go
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| So I went from the sidelines, to starring in the show
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| Everything came slow, and nothing came fast
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| Most times I was out of luck, and dead on my ass
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| But with the heart of a hustler, and the mind of a G
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| I came up, now I’m something to see Bun B |