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That's right
Bigga B, rest in peace
Held things down out here in L.A
Your name will forever live on, my man
Word up
But this song right here set things off for Krondon
Right out the gate in '98
Right out the gate
Hit hard
Y'all know the rules
Produced by my man Julian
California critical shit, a 12-bit
One strip sure to eat up your whole compact disc
Los Angeles, take the terrorist
Blonde waves, black fists, incredible lyricist
In a never ending quest to get rich
I hold a grip, with time to breathe
More tricks up my sleeve than about 40 thieves
With 40 niggas in a weed spot, running they trees
It's all money to me, in 360 degrees
Now relax and relax like Cool Breeze
Things fucked up in the street
Avoiding front page fame, so I'm holding my heat
So low key, that none of you niggas is knowing me
In '98, I only see we
Only we, hoping Allah see me
And only me, let bless my family tree
In 2000, my niggas old school like '83
Pour Hennessey, for all enemies
Loving dollars, and all you gangstas love Impalas
Never put a bitch before your mama
Stay tuned, for Love L.O.V.E. Right, the 12 jewels
Nigga, you know the rules
Yo, that song right there did it's thing
Krondon didn't stop working though
Kept hitting you hard over the head with butters
Hooked up with mad peoples
DJ Khalil, Self Scientific
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