(First Degree):
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Shit done changed, the strip got bigger
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To make my ends I got the wheel and the trigger
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I get my swerve on with the 80 P liquor
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The liquor bring out the nigga in this nigga
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Got me huntin' with my musket, barred down with substance
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Bringin' my ruckus to the rival fuckas in rival clusters
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I'm still givin' birth to perfect joints, I keep it steady
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Still mixin' up with skeet sours, I like them heavy
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Heavy'll put a little bass in your voice
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Yamps choice, no Rolls Royce but I keep it moist
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I keep it saucy, ya bossy bitch talkin' that costly shit
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Bossy bitch think she too flossy to trip
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I'm First muthafuckin' Degree, not your average,
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I'll have your boulevard hoppin'
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Poppin' off when a baller pack a package of suckin'
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Fuck you fuckin' up duck, stuck like Chuck, now, now getcha dome in the trunk
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As we donut, I dump, I seen too many moons, took the minds of too many bufoons
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Fools with no clues that love to watch my aura glisten,
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they still don't listen
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I...I got pot that's hot to trot, can't stop, won't stop
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I got Lynch Hung in my backseat sniffin' for cops
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I receipts of tweed purchase, medical purpose, write off at text time
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So ya'll go home, light the smoke, it's relax time
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Chorus:
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Now I apologize for smoke on my mind
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I been workin' hard and I got to unwind
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About the J.O.A. stayin' in my brain
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But I'm seconds away from goin' insane
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Now I need to lift away
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(Lynch):
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Now you niggas know I come sick like a lunatic
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Man, they must be high cuz they really don't know who they fuckin' with
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I used to have them all bombed out
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Drink Alize wine, then rhyme and smoke tweeds till we dropped out
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I got the chop out, no doubt,
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cuz if it ain't about rappin', gunplay's gon' happen
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Cuz I'm tappin' at yo' window, off that Indo, more sacs than Santana
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Better check your antenna on your radio or your stereo or your video
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Cuz I'm not that pretty, but in the bedroom I'm critical
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You got your chance, now use
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Hit you with the Loaded album, coutesty of Siccmade Music
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Evidently you got something against me
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Don't you tempt me, minty smells of the 20 sac of Indo, Killafornia's best
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Player haters die a slow death, slow death
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CHORUS
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(Ice-T):
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I don't wear no Chuck Taylors and don't sag my pants
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But I still lift the switch and make this 64 dance
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More niggas with me now than I had in the hood
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And they down for whatever and that's all to the good
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Wish you would test my technique and heart, nigga what?
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Nigga, fuck that, bitch nigga what? Baby, duck!
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What you wanna do now, ya bleedin' from the floor
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Nigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no more
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That's how I'm coming 9-6, bitch, rich and mad
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Hoes in bikinis, rag Lambroginis, overseer runnin' mad streets
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Creepers with beepers and stash spots for glocks
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And under car Escobar style, buck wild, you been there, you know the terrain
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Niggas go insane, tryin' to get the green
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I'm just surviving on the streets with my peeps
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And I'm livin' for the day I catch a punk on the creep, yeah
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CHORUS
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Secondz A Way
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Brotha Lynch Hung |