Roses grow from concrete, blossom into sweet magnolias,
And when we on the road, bitches follow the tour bus
You're stuck in a time warp from two thousand four though
You going to the club though, you soaking in sorrow
One, two, three little fags, they fuck with my homies so i grab out the body bags,
Inducing my movements / as i'm improving my fusing on tracks
But respect is more real, and ambition the key
Two or three, hits of thc, yeah it fits for me.
C’mon and let’s chill baby
One two three, what could it be
Or two. or maybe three?
Six-fifty, three hundred my shirt free
Normally i order three or four of these
Eyes all stickin' like honey on bees
Your grind's feeble, i'm regal, really, i'm willy smith
U avoid me- u playing ring around the roses!
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