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Dear Friend
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Tha God Fahim
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It's the six-ring champ, I might as well just keep it candid I pull shots and make off just like a bandit I pop off, they get lost and end up stranded I rock Nikes and rock mics, you know the canvas Miami nights, I squeeze and lemons drop It's the Shot Clock King, I put points up, say, "Bismillah" The poverty bothers me, so I keep the work pushin' Like a chef in the kitchen, I be always cookin' Don't try to show muscle and get flexed on, I flex arms Got you walkin' through the city with the sweat palms Check the pedigree, the legend be - I'm heavenly My rhyme past swole likе Triple H and Booker T Ballistics Just like a couplе blunts, you got me twisted If any man alive is on my level of linguistics Karate chop the block with my spontaneous traditions I drop another tape, it's like a holiday in my dimension [Verse 2: Your Old Droog]
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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