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"Pistols In Paris" lyrics by DON TRIP
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"Pistols In Paris"


I ball hard 'til I foul out
In all black like da power out
I'm flyer than both them airplanes dat
Bush sent to knock da towers down
Dog bitch, no Bow Wow
We eatin' bitch, no pow wow
Just a lil nigga witta big gun
And I point dat bitch, it go pow pow
Kick back witta bitch, I ball
'Bout to finish up witta hot towel
Ya'll must not be fundin' me
I get more head than ya eyebrows
Since all we talkin is punchlines
I talk more shit than a fly's mouth
Paid up, I put my paper behind myself
Bitch wetter than spilled milk
But I like it wet, so why pout
I don't see you niggas, but I chase da cheese
And I gets to it like a blind mouse
Still not fuckin with' da rat pack
These rap cats so quiet now
Workin' with' all dat shy money
Mine arrogant, and I'm proud
My clock tellin me it's winter time
1st class when I fly south
I'm ice cold, no runny nose
Got more ho's than a fire house
Unfortunately I'm still in the dirt
More than happy with my pile
I'm strapped up, all hollow points
Talk volatile, and hostile
I don't know what "dat cray" means
I'm too smart to just say things
Dat drop top or dat hard top
I'm at the dealership, debating
Never ran out of breath
From all this cheese toast I been chasing
And y'all wear all them tight jeans
Is more sweeter than pralines
My money fast as a Salene
I'm wide awake in my day dreams
Cause I'm chasin mine, you take ya time
Just know that time's not waiting
King Kong makes a great king
Just had my second baby
My cockiness grows daily
You gotta pay me just to pay me
Yeah bitch, I'm sittin fat
It's not possible for me to trade teams
If I said it then it's da truth
Like Beanie Sigel, not Tray Dee
But Trae the Truth, you dry snitch
Then wet you up when we spray tools
It's Notch or none, all for one
On the calendar, it's April fools
Riding 'round with 'bout 30 rounds
And da truth is, I can't wait to shoot
Just to make an example
Try Trip and make breaking news
Smack his bitch, shake'em down
Snatch his chain, take his shoes
We ain't got plans on wearin'em
Just pardon us, we too old school
Handle shit like I'm suppose to
This ain't beef, this tofu
Ya bitch staring, her nipples hard
It's my fault, cause I'm so cool
You dropped her off, and I drove through
And sicked dat bitch on my whole crew
On top of that I recorded her
And I ain't talkin' no Pro Tools

I don't even know what that means
(No one knows what it means, but it's provocative)
No it's not, it's gross (Gets the people going!)

Got more money, got more goons
And more streets swept than a old broom
We ain't talkin 'bout income
My schedule booked, I got no room
Can't wait to be king
Hope they bury me inside a gold toom
Don Trip
Suicide bomber, 'bout to go boom!


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