[Lynch:]
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Now on my briefcase was some crumbled weed
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A pack of Saravegas and a 24 ounce O.E.
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Might as well skeez these couple of hoes
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In my 69 Malibu sittin' on trues and vogues
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For days you might have seen me in my cinnamon cut chrome shoes
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With some you can't see me tint on the windows Indo syndrome
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Smokin' it up, not givin' a muthafuckin' fizuck
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Sold the cut, my ex-hoe said that nigga's sqautin' what?
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Got at the homie Carl, and got some of that bomb
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Had me so fuckin' high I got off like Vietnam
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Dead bodies and bitches clits simmerin' in the crock pot
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And the shit don't stop until my muthafuckin' chronic or high drop
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It's just that insane type of thang, let the Mac rain guts in the drain
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Siccmade niggas they make the world go round
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And if you fuck with Siccmade Music you can get your ass gunned down
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[Phonk Beta:]
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I had a homie who stayed up in Alaska, used to transfer flights over Nebraska
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And flew me back about a ounce of that Alaska Indica weed
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And out of the whole zip possessed one seed
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Had it wrapped real tight all up in cellophane
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Can't have the K-9 dogs smell it, man
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If only you saw what I was seein', the buds was almost pure white, not green
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Had to be one of those one hitter quitter dome splitters
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That's the type a tweed that makes you wanna fuck your baby-sitter
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I roll a fattie, when I roll this fattie
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Niggas'll be all noid wonderin' why they lookin at me
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Bitches have the nerve to say my shit ain't bomb
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But it'll have your lungs burnin', like your puffin' on napalm
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[Zagg:]
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I wipe that sweat up off my forehead, I'm off the cusche
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Lay back and take a comfortable hit, with a Q-tip, it's splittin' my lips
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And my dome stays split off toothpicks
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I hit a lick with a quickness, dumpin' dead bodies in ditches
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Appreciate the fact, come correct, cuz I could be vicious
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Suspicion, comin' up on recognition I'm creepin' up from behind
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With a 12 gauge, non-fiction, I'm all prepared to go for mine
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So step in line, a couple of hits, dome split, I be lit on a for real base
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With a machete I'll slice your neck just like them Jason cases
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Murder traces, but I ain't pinned cuz there's no evidence
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Slight scent of that purple cusche plant, and I can almost sense the essence
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What's the lesson? Get tested, don't come if you can't come correct
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It's that West Coast shit for life I don't know what you expected
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I'm reckless, nevertheless I'm a pimp in a bulletproof vest
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Puttin' it down, pound for pound, you need to take a step down
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50 caliber rounds, I'm runnin' through your whole town
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Buckin' em down like Doom set on deathmatch with the BFG-9000 cartoon
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-----------------
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On My Brief Case
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Brotha Lynch Hung |