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    Shoulda never put me on this beat
    Okay, yeah, normal baller
    We back on tizzy, on top
    Jump Off, Dub B, Jersey
    Stand up

    Jump off you rap guys is a joke
    I'm here to take the scoring title without the green light from my coach
    Man, don't make me have to smack your lineup
    I'm Michael Jordan y'all Harold Minor's that rap vagina
    All black ski mask, gloves, tuck the thing
    Drive slow, lights out like "I love this game"
    I live this y'all paint that pic
    And like Magic I'm starting to believe y'all dudes ain't that sick
    Might see ya boy scooping up a bird to get knowledge
    Number one draft pick and I skipped college
    Snakes in the trenches I peep those, get injured
    End up like Grant Hill on the bench in your street clothes
    Talk about he real, how he quick with a glock
    But like Kurt Thomas he ain't good for shit on the block
    See the gleam from the shoes
    Man, I don't mean to seem rude
    Gunshots do you like Vancouver make your team move
    (Let's Go!)

    It's gone be the NBA never NBC (Yeah)
    Rookie of the year slash MVP (Rap suckas, we back)
    Never channel 4
    We handle the 4
    It's the number one draft pick (Yours truly)
    Let your gat spit, nigga

    Can't treat me like a sucka
    Gather up your five, man meet me at the Rucker
    Put the heat to you fuckers
    Half Man-Half Amazing with a clip in my boot
    My 4-5 will make you "Skip To My Lou", think about it
    Understand when I was younger I was all on my own
    So when I said 3-2 I wasn't calling a zone
    Nice truck, nice house and chain
    I car jacked you like Shaq shooting a three man get outta your Range
    This is regular hood shit
    I put Don Cheaney under the arm and show him how to make a good nick
    If you wack, you need to probably write
    Either that or quit it, throw in the chair like you Bobby Knight
    I work damn hard
    But don't think I can't rob
    Can't pitch, I still handle the rock like Shammgod
    Still hurt you cowards
    Still see me merking them Prowlers
    And know they still call me Dirk in Dallas
    I'm that nigga


    Man I kill lame queers
    It still ain't clear
    Never saving the tech like Bill Laimbeer
    I got tools for rilly
    With shells that make your temple hot and I ain't talking 'bout a school in Philly
    I ain't a selfish player
    Man, I help your weight up
    Cuz only Riders in this game now is myself and Isaiah
    Listen, you gettin dissed
    While I'm screwing these miss's
    I'm on cruise control you still moving your pivot
    But I'll show you how mean this crook be
    You and your dogs' like the Houston Comets, a team fulla pussy's
    It ain't a game no more, it's a sport
    If you ain't got heart to play then stay off the court


    Game over!

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    Todas as letras de Joe Budden

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