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Crooked I - We Fly High
Artist: Crooked I
Song: We Fly High


Dynasty C.O.B.
Yeah, Horse Shoe Gang, On One Squad hahaha
I don’t care how old this shit is
This shit’s still bangin’
Yeah, you did that my nigga
Got Koch lookin’, aw, quite nice I might add, haha, yeah
I’m in the black label shit nigga, what
I got the Feregamo? joints bangin’ on ‘em
Bullet proof vest and Cuban cigar, C.O.B.
It’s LBC nigga, Eastside

Verse 1:

Yeah, Whoever call they selves spittin
Is now gettin’ shitted on
Which nigga can get it on with the sickest nigga known
This is the shit I’m on
I sit alone and dim the lit rooms
Writin’ 5 minute songs in the zone
Then I’m... gone,
Where you at?
I’m everywhere nigga,
The VIBE Awards, BET: yeah I’m there nigga
The All Star, Super Bowl: yeah I’m there nigga
W’s in the air, bangin’ on you square niggas
Right next to Jigga at the Russell Simmons party
Some niggas beefin’ with Jeezy
I didn’t spill my Baccardi
I don’t care about the ruckus
Tryin’ to tell S-Dot, yes?
Come and deal with some young mo’fuckas from the West
I do ‘Def Jam’ like Warren G did it
Give you the whole marketing plan in less than three minutes
A street menace, spectacular acuman,
Imagine Donald Passman Junior with the G-Business
Russell say I’m just a hit away
I’m burned out, hit Miami just to get away
I’m in the Trump Towers Sunny Isles Timbaland suite
I walk down dolo Collins Ave. grippin’ the heat
Look for chicks with the sickest physique
I digs the thickest of freaks
Ridiculously pimpin’ is me
Bumpin’ to my nigga Blue Devinci at the Puffy party
Got my table next to Cadillac Tah and Irv Gotti
Yeah Gotti, you was right
I’m the truth on the West
Like I passed the polygraph
In the booth I’m the best
Bastards wanna lolly gag
I’ma shoot through your flesh
Get a fag a body bag, give him two to the chest
Hoes want a autograph. I ain't even on TV
Sellin’ out shows, I ain't dropped no CD
Givin’ bitches the french business, you know that wee-wee
Now who push through LB first in a GT, ME
The one and only, the gun is on me
The younger homies are dumpin’ for me, you mothafuckas phony
I’m comin, ask Houston, Texas, if I’m a Hoodstar
Smellin’ like Papa dough strollin’ through the M-Bar
How a Free-Agent bring his hustle this far
Switch cars every six bars, the world is ours
C.O.B. we deep as can be, Creepin’ with heat,
Leave you in pieces for people to see
Keepin’ it G, eatin’ the beef
Please tell the police chief
His niece in the suite and she sleepin with ME
Yeah, I guess this about sums it
I’m on some shoot you in your face, Dick Chaney dumb shit
I’m on some slappin’ skinny Pimps for poppin’ punk shit
I’m on some never stop until my niggas run shit
One love bitch.. haha C.O.B., L.B.C.
Yeah nigga
Don’t worry bout nothin’ Francisco
Ey Stannard, Pittsey, Bullet
Leak, Novakane Chewee, we finna run this my niggas
Hakan & Killuminati ask ‘em what it do
Martinvest, Roger Ramrod, RKO, the Kuillotine
You better ask ‘em
Martin Luther King said “A lie can never live forever”
Malcolm X said “By any means necessary”
By any means necessary I will expose you lies, yeah
You better ask Paul Izzle, Big SuperSoaker and the Crook Show
You better ask Cvrle and Nismo, Sieruken
YaknowImean, The Outs1d3r, hahaha
You better go ask my niggas Tony and Peter
We not playin’ C.O.B. Circle of Bosses
And we comin’ and we listen to all interviews
And we hear everything, our ear is to the streets
You mention our name, it’s not over
L.B.C. East Side Up, Westcoast
Ride with your boy, Myspace/crookedi bitch
And I’m givin’ this one to my dude Marc Harmon in Iraq
Come home safe boy
**Beat Stops** BUSH, stop trippin’ nigga

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