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"sh*t Got Forreal (Sorry Ms. Jackson Freestyle)"

Play we-
Uhh, YL
This sh*t got for real

Strapped up, two army guns
Me and my n*ggas, we been shootin' sh*t for fun
I'm on pocket pack so ain't nobody make me run
Hop out on him and he done
Hop out on him wit' a big AR
I pull up and a n*gga get wacked
I pull up it and it hit your arm and legs
n*gga really pus*y, I don't believe that
n*gga really pus*y, I don't even believe that
Freaky b*tch and I need her
She be suckin' di*k when I need her
Walked down singin' like Anita
n*gga really pus*y, n*gga really fakin'
I just burn him, fry him, bacon
n*gga really know I'ma take it
Say they from the A but n*gga really be from Macon
What the hell I'm talkin' bout? I don't know either
I'm a real Spartanburg n*gga
You can catch me in the Croft back then
Now I'm ridin' 'round town gettin' it in
I got plenty f*ckin' drugs for the low, boy
Now let me take that back, no, I don't, boy
'Cause the Police they be literally tellin' words
But I still leave a n*gga on the curb
b*tch, I'm racked up, yeah, b*tch, I'm guaped up
Yeah, pull up on you, n*gga, wit' that helicopter
That's a baby carbon, yeah, that hit your father
I don't give a f*ck, I wish it would go farther
And I got you on the scope, you a target
Leave a n*gga down bad, farted
sh*tted on yourself, let his bowels loose
Please don't make me crash like Bandicoot

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