In time we learned to live a life of crime
Ahead of his years, ahead of his time,
Of that gangja from the shores of shanghai
I swear the pen right across from hell, i can't cry
Pocket racked up all big faces
Of potential cases
Looking at the sky, hoping a light would shine
Couple of shots and a glass of wine.
Your yard, full of pieces of lard
Like a small garage in your backyard
I reel them in, goadomes on see
Thoughts of immortality
Jars upon jars, but yet no jam for the bread.
First letter says motherfucker you're dead
Furniture made of the flesh of my foes
And yeah we up in stadium, quarterbacking hoes
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