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They don’t like us
Word up
They don’t like us
They ain’t gotta like us f–k them son

Starang forever like Wu Tang my crew brings drama
Hangin’ your a-s upside down by ya shoe strings
Smoke, tell ’em how we doin’ this
Stop the whole s–t just to big up my newness

(Now, by all means)
I do a show in New Orleans
And get wit b’out it ’bout it Mystikal
(Starang, we been missin’ you)
Last year ATL we almost got physical

I can’t talk, now, read about it in the interview
(While y’all up in D&D)
I caught two and three stitches
I was still gettin’ b—hes in the tunnel takin’ pictures
In the mazda listenin’ to ‘Kris, I Got Next’
I wanted hot sex, so I ran and got the Lex

Aiyo, s–t goes down
Time to throw down, show up this a showdown
So, down low, now, I’m low down
Hold down the fort, now wit a fo’ pound
Blow down ya whole town first go round

Yo smile’ll quickly be switched, b—h, and you’ll frown
When I dig in ya pockets and take all the dope out
Lay ya gold out now and don’t pronounce one word
Shut the f–k up, probably cryin’ hold down

Tired of punk a-ses, takin’ s–t for a joke
Now, watch you’ll pounce gat pointed at yo door
Act like you know now
We could be so foul, shake your hand, run up in ya b—h, no doubt

I ain’t havin’ that
I ain’t havin’ that
I ain’t havin’ that
I ain’t havin’ that

S–t, yo’ game be a-ses, I got two pa-ses to the Baja
Then turn into night we f–k, yo’ cars superthug privilege
I ain’t got to brag because I did it
Run before the rap when I was scrappin’

On these motherf–kin’ mean streets of Brownsville gun clappin’
I ain’t got to front, I make it happen
Strictly snappin’ necks, strictly macs and techs
Head all night over, deuce, deuce, the feds

Yo, matter fact, here’s a list of some of the s–t I ain’t havin’
First of all there won’t be no more talkin’ out yo’ a-s, man
I ain’t havin’ no back stabbin’, I ain’t havin’ s–t
Run yo’ mouth, you get smacked in it, why? Why?
(Why?)

Why ask? Why say goodbye to mister nice guy? Say hi to the bad guy
Four horsemen head the magnum force, man, rip you get lit the f–k up
(Speed)
Like a spliff of human torch, man, this s–t scorchin’

Do the research your feet hurt from half-steppin’
Bitin’ my s–t a make your teeth hurt
Word is bond Jovi B you wildin’
My dick don’t stay out, my high stop ridin’
(My dick)

Son, n—az tryin’ ta beat me in the head wit gats f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)
Run up in the piece think you gone dead that f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)

U.S. Marshall’s at my crib, tryin’ ta take me back, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)
We could take it ol’ school at 3, meet me in the back, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)

Yo, yo, where ya at?
To all my peoples Hennessey pa-sed off
Give a toast to my whole MFC
While you clowns waitin’, Ruck is shakin’ the foundation

Wit some groundbreakin’ s–t that’ll leave the town thinking
When I cock back my pistol, drop back and whistle
For my n—as to hold me down because this here ’bout to get hit dude
We miss you, stick a n—as roll and his fool clique
I gotta full clip for you and all of ya bull

U.S. Marshall and your little, whittle, when left is caught up on my pillow
Eat a dick between 2 slices of bread, you f–kin’ fag
MFC keep it cookin’
(Keep it cookin’)

We emerge wit the blue print to plan my escape from central Brooklyn
Rock, pick the lock, Ruck, bust the sha sha
Keep with the blast CC4 to blow the door
(Now, we blow the spot)

Armed and dedicated semi under rated, f–k it, to me dated by a wip a-s
You n—az lick a-s, we blast gas pletal freak ma-s
Doin’ the Macarana over 2 pounds of hash
(We ain’t havin’ that)

I ain’t havin’ that
I ain’t havin’ that
I ain’t havin’ that
I ain’t havin’ that
I ain’t havin’ that

You don’t got no wins in mi casa
My s–t’s proper, you still suckin’ my kielbasa
From hilshire I still fire from helicopters
Watch the birdie, I heard him tell the tale to the coppers

Clock ya comin’ from the precinct singin’ operas
Met you at ya crib from the blind side, I dropped ya
Knocked ya, teeth out ya mouth when I popped ya
Sent you upstate to get a gun from ya poppa

Yo, live n—az on the wall, write that smoke, crack, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)
Yo, ya smack me and I smack you back f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin that)

Y’all n—az think y’all gon’ come around here flashin’ track, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)
And if you n—az owe me dough, besta get my trap, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)

Son, you know they can’t stand me
‘Cuz my crew pack heat like Miami
Ran for these rappaz outside of the Grammy’s
They be killin’ me, how they willingly be grillin’ me

‘Cuz they shorty wop just be feelin’ me
Could it be my name or my big gold chain?
Now, when we in the airport on our way to soul train
I got n—az on the West coast
(West side)

That meet me at the airport, carryin’ weed in they trench coats
In business cla-s, eatin’ French toast and coffee
Tell the stewardess to back up off me we on y’all
Warned ya but y’all still couldn’t wait for the all-time great
William H. word up

And if ya call and I’m not home then you can call me back, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)
You just can’t smoke if you ain’t put in for the sack, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)

Son, don’t f–k her raw, here’s a jimmy hat, f–k that
(I ain’t havin’ that, I ain’t havin’ that)
Here’s a tic-tac, your breath smell like a-s crack, f–k that

And when you know that when you’re MFC, you’re MFC for life
98 s–t, Willam H. Duren, Doc Holiday
Heltah Skeltah
The manuscript Blue Lines is the fictional coming of age narrative of a young California woman Key Yemaya Walker, and her 2 year growing journey through school, love, and life period piece, written by Kenneth Suffern, Jr., taking place at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill between the years of 1997 – 1998. Loosely based on true events, and experiences during that time, told through the eyes and voice of the main female protagonist, a freshman first attending the school.

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