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Who the fuck is this?
Pagin me at 5: 46 in the mornin crack a dawnin
Now I'm yawnin, wipe the cold out my eye
See who's this pagin me and why...
It's my man Pop from the barbershop
Told me he was in the gamblin spot and heard the intricate plot
Some people wanna stick you like fly paper neighbour
Slow down love please chill drop the caper
Remember them kidz from the hill up in Brownsville
That you rolled dice with
Smoked the blunts and got nice with
Yeah my little Fame up in Prospect
Nah dem my people nah love wouldn't disrespect
I didn't say dem,
You school be bout some niggas
That you knew from back when,
When you was clockin minor figures
Now they heard you blowin up like nitro
Know they wanna stick the knife
Through your windpipe slow...
So thank Fame for warnin me now I'm warnin you
You got the mac Biggie
Tell me what you wanna do...
Damn niggas wanna stick me for my papers
They heard about the Rolex's and the Lexus
With the Texas license plate outta state
They heard about the pounds
You got down in Georgetown
Now they heard you got half of Virginia locked down
They even heard about the crib
You bought your moms out in Florida
The fifth corridor...
Call the coroner
There's gonna be alot of slow singin
And flower bringin
If my burgular alarm starts ringin
Whatcha think all the guns is for?
All purpose war got the rottweilers by the door
And I feed em gun powder so they can devour
The criminals tryin to clock my decimals
DAMN... niggas wanna stick my for my C.R.E.A.M.
And the inner dream things ain't always how it seems
It's the ones that smoke blunts witcha
See your picture, now they wanna
Grab they guns and come and getcha
Bethca Biggie won't slip
I got the calico with the black talons loaded in the clip
So I can rip through the ligaments
Put they bodies in a bad prediciment
Where all the foul niggas went
Touch my cheddar, feel my Beretta
Buck with what I had you with
You motherfuckers betta duck
I bring pain blood stains on what remains
Of his jacket, he had a gun he should've packed it
Cocked it, extra clips in my pocket
So I can reload and explode down ya rasshole
I fuck around and get hardcore
See 4 to ya door no beef no more
Feel the rush scandalous
The more weed smoke I puff the more dangerous
I don't give a fuck about you or your weak crew
What you gonna do when Big Poppa comes for you
Start runnin, nigga I bust my gun in
Hold on I hear somebody comin...

Writer(s): Wallace Christopher, David Hal, Bacharach Burt F, Harvey Osten

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