Bitches talk to me, and they send you niggas postcards
Spittin heat like a toaster cook you pop tarts
To quick, show 'em to tha cook, hearion' them sayin'
That's because thats these compton streets was built not to win
Just to go to liv on a sunday
Fish flaying great cook and he ain't even gay
Goin' ham in beef it's raw, i cook it up with twisted news,
Rollin' down the street, smokin' indo, sippin' on gin and juice
I'm the butcher, the cook and heart taker
Brandun deshay, hodgy beats, ace the creator
You claim you a thug crook a drug cook you ain't it
Never use the word ours i'm living in the minute
Look, i lost my nigga over nothing though
I'm looking for a girl to wash, cook, clean and sew
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