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    Victory, victory
    Gold on my neck, Mr. T
    Victory, victory
    Zombie gang reppin' that NYC

    Victory, victory
    Ice round my neck like I'm Lil Weeze
    We run this shit like a pair of cleats
    It's hell on earth with this rap beat

    Money over bitches on my headstone
    Here lies young nigga gettin' paper
    Never take a loss on my headstone
    Only take a L when I'm smokin' it

    Zombie gang three times on my headstone
    Been thuggin', from the cradle to the grave
    Now your favorite rapper name on a headstone
    Too late, he already dead

    Imagine when you're thirty thousand feet up what you think of?
    Boy, I hated knowin' that my thoughts would turn to dreams
    'Cause I never knew I'd get my chance to link up
    Boy, I tell you, all of this unusual to me

    Swear I came from the bottom, Flatbush livin', walkin' dead on
    But your favorite rapper's name up on a headstone
    Biggie Big for the cheese and you're dead wrong
    Propaganda set the standards in the terror dome

    I hit it doggystyle, she throw it back
    Yeah, I'm born to mack
    It's dark in Hell, it's hot so leave me where I'm at
    I'm livin' how I wanna, no reasonable doubt
    It's clear to see, all eyes on me, four hundred degrees

    Who am I? Ruthless, easy does it
    The chronic, smoke it in public, hate it or love it
    The underdogs, with liquid swords
    It was written in my diary to start a war

    I'm feelin' infamous, immortal with my technique
    A revolutionary shinin', with diamond teeth
    Young don, Cartagena, excuse my demeanor, this the glamour life
    You still not a player, you ain't half as nice

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    I'm born to kill, life after death, I made the sacrifice
    I'm super duper fly, Juice'll keep them hypnotized
    I said my name is Juice, America's most
    Ain't no half-steppin', see you at the crossroads

    Put money over bitches on my headstone
    Here lies young nigga gettin' paper
    Never take a loss on my headstone
    Only take a L when I'm smokin' it

    Zombie gang three times on my headstone
    Been thuggin' from the cradle to the grave
    Now your favorite rapper name on a headstone
    Too late, he already dead

    It was written in a children's story, that life's a bitch
    So what you want? Everyday I struggle with it
    Only god can judge me slippin', I'm infinitely big pimpin'
    Though the genesis, dead presidents, drop a gem on them

    Hell on earth, these the last days, throw your guns up
    Get money, Quiet Storm, havin' suicidal thoughts
    For the c.r.e.a.m, renegade
    For the money, only green is the lemonade

    I'm a player on the late night tip, shorty triple six
    She the prototype, Tip drill, kiss the fingertips
    Resevoir Dogs, check the scar, ignorant shit
    Blackout, can I live? Hell raiser, still feel me

    Kiss of death, reprotect ya neck
    Three dope boyz in a Cadillac, Gravediggaz
    Kiss of death, reprotect ya neck, shame on a nigga
    Three dope boyz in a Cadillac, Gravediggaz

    Put money over bitches on my headstone
    Here lies young nigga gettin' paper
    Never take a loss on my headstone
    Only take a L when I'm smokin' it

    Zombie gang three times on my headstone
    Been thuggin' from the cradle to the grave
    Now your favorite rapper name on a headstone
    Too late, he already dead

    Right now I'm on the edge, so don't push me
    Troublesome since '96, you a shook one
    Breath easy on the ledge, I'm yo pusha
    What's that? I smell pussy

    Let me count my guns, um
    5, 4, 3, 2, 1 run
    Hi, my name is Dirt Cobain
    Like a pimp, here I go to the next episode

    Ain't another nigga this explosive, beastcoast shit
    Brr-rr reload it
    Fuck them other niggas, ride or die for my niggas
    Strictly for my niggas, survival of the fittest

    Woo-woo! That's the sound of the police
    I'm in deep cover, skrr skrr
    Leaned back, give me one more chance
    They say Jesus walks and the Devil wear Prada
    But I'm so, so deaf, God can't tell me nothing

    Records on my death certificate, I gave you power
    21 questions, like who shot ya? I shot ya!
    Warning, watch them niggas flashin' like papparazi
    Two words, fuck bitches, get money

    Tonight's the night, guess who's back on my block
    Rather you need dollar, get shot in Bucktown
    This firearm, silencer on, that quiet storm
    T-o-n-y, top of New York, with a pitchfork

    Información de la canción

    Composición: Meechy Darko y Zombie Juice e Erick Arc Elliott

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