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    Thirstin Howl III / Lyrics

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    "Stole" Lyrics

    Thirstin Howl III

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    Thirstin Howl, LoLife Founders
    And to be a deck of eight, spit shine my throne
    I make a cell, look like home
    Suave wrath, and all that
    Came home, wearin" corp craft
    Stayed clean, started bidden as a baby
    Sewed a Polo patch on my stay-greens
    In the yard, don't matter who didn't like me
    Wore Polo frames on my Riker's Island I.P.

    Strip search - watch
    Where you hide your ox when you butt naked in the box
    Keep locked music, segregated housing units
    Don't carry the icepick if you ain't gonna use it
    Jail, manners, homemade, magnums
    Where you thugs become homo madams
    Robbed at random
    In the court pins with me, sneakers my size you ran them
    Handle beef by the pound, I ain't loud
    I'll wait to stab you 'til we line up for chow


    Thou shalt not steal but I - STOLE!
    Ran up in Sac's with two gats that I - STOLE!
    Snatch Kangols, bankrolls, gold - STOLE!
    Crashed a car on the FDR that I - STOLE!
    Sixty 'Lo hats, fifty slacks I - STOLE!
    Always had a welfare ho that - STOLE!
    The same day I came from jail I - STOLE!
    On Park Ave. in a Jag I - STOLE!
    Knocked out the guard by the door when we - STOLE!
    We took a dollar van on the rush when we - STOLE!
    Civilians cameras watch me but I still - STOLE!
    See me on the train witcha chain I - STOLE!
    In New York we - STOLE! New Jerz we - STOLE!
    N.C. we - STOLE! Philly we - STOLE!
    D.C. we - STOLE!

    I'll break your jawbone
    Got the fast hands; take all Guess and Polo we - STOLE!

    Before drama, whatever we end this as
    My pride ain't in my pocket, it's in this bag
    Whether guns or pussy, I know when to pull out
    My Puerto Rican hair never needed Nu Nile
    If you could walk in my shoes, you could sleep in my grave
    My Brooklyn style, Big Daddy Kane, Dana Dane
    If I was jumped, by niggaz thirty deep
    I'll grab one, and make sure they murder me
    Only death is promised, as you know

    But all my baby mothers, fightin' at the funeral
    Keep the beef, in Brooklyn, for Biggie
    If Ms. Wallace tell us we'll burn down our city!
    Drank Old Gold, for breakfast, with disco
    Timberland boots, bring back forty pillows
    You not a thug or a murderer - murderer
    Only a big baller - if you got a hernia!
    It's bout the, dolla, it's not an, option
    Too official to wear Troop or CapOne
    Snatched by his throat, choked
    Slapped Freddy Kruger, cause his sweater, wasn't 'Lo
    Forty-two steep - sound like, thousand feet
    Threw empty forty ounces off a, balcony
    Understanding, knowledge, wisdom
    Hold up Puerto Rican flags - in the name of Big Pun!
    This song was submitted on December 7th, 2013 and last modified on November 23rd, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group.
    Written by Dane Anthony Deviller, Sean Hosein, Stephen Kipner, Stephen Alan Kipner.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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