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Correct HPNGC Lyrics
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Injury Reserve
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Correct HPNGC
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(feat. Code Orange & JPEGMAFIA) [Verse 1: Ritchie wit a T] Shh, Shh, Shh I don't wanna hear a peep, nigga Shh, Shh, Shh Shut the fuck up, nigga I don't wanna hear a peep, nigga Creep niggas Border collie for the sheep niggas Flee nigga Ain't shit sweet nigga They four deep nigga Shh, don't wanna hear a peep nigga Shh, fuck nigga sleep nigga Dweeb nigga Hello Speak nigga They tryna eat nigga Trick or treat nigga Ah Please nigga Boom boom boom Dawg Dirt cheap nigga Here get ya beauty sleep nigga Nigga thats on GP nigga OohWee nigga Fall asleep niggas Pour one out for these niggas Oh my niggas these nigga Buy me a gun And do it for fun Probably more Martin than Malcolm When it comes to the funds In the club With the Huey P. Newton Gun Club Nigga [Verse 2: JPEGMAFIA] And these rap niggas need bullets (facts, facts nigga) It's Mr. twitter fingers (yeah) A.K.A Ms. trigger fingers Bitch I feel nothing 'specially from no bitch nigga I'm like a old white woman Niggas make me nervous Bitch I'm a black Beatle I can't keep Insta-lurking (huh) I been watching and wishing Blicky stashed in the kitchen I'm too big for my britches I'm too rich for these bitches I feel like DJ Vlad but bitch I'm never snitching I keep lying to myself cause I just wanna kick it I get my Kenan Ivory on and find out how you're living You niggas pussy rather beat your meat then stick the clip in I take my time you always russian, whats you niggas mission I feel like Putin, go against me you 'gone end up missin' Sometimes i wonder how these fake thugs keep winnin' I can't keep praying to these crackas I ain't fuckin wit th- Bruh I'm at ya car I'm at ya job I'm at ya crib I'm at ya house I got the M4 in ya spouse I got the SK on the couch Empty the clip I'm tryna' hit Shoot in the air You sound like a bitch All on the gram you sound like a snitch Tell me just how you gon' kill me I feel like Posh Spice I feel like Robin Givens Pick Honda's over Benz' Leave some guap for my chillren Take a shot for the villains Load a shot for the killin' Sand paper Peggy Decorate that glass ceiling yea! These niggas My chillren Fuck bloggers Fuck feelings No filler [Interlude: JPEGMAFIA] This nasty Kimber baby [Verse 3: Steppa J. Groggs] My brother Who copped a shotgun From Big 5 You couldn't tell 'em shit man We thought that we were big time Had me walking wit my chest out Like that shits mine Even copped a little polish nigga so that shit shines I was about a buck fifty Five nah Nas made me 5'10 His finger itchin' Niggas thought That we was wit the shits But he was never 'fraid Still down to throw the fade My little buddy in the back would make you walk away Ridin' round strapped wit the thumper in the back First time in awhile *beep* Ain't Have it on his lap We were mobbin' through Berkeley like where the function at Seen em boys ride past and of course they circled back Only one niggas seen they life flash when they flashed If they search the car we all know its a wrap It didn't really help that we were drunk as fuck Good thing they didn't go and pop the trunk Nigga
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