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Hands is the language for the bangers, homeboy.
And it's dangerous, homeboy.
Get your brains blew for how you do your fingers, homeboy.
Heat cocked, we popping hot ones.
Dump 'em out, bend the block, shaken before the cops come.
Listen for sirens. They don't got none.
Back another lap, catch a straggler with a shotgun.
Hittin' 'em up what that Grove Street like,
in a dirty sling shot, and old Levi.
Land of the heinous, gangbangers, and cold heat.
In Los Santos, neighbours get no sleep.
Beefin' with anybody, competin' even police.
Four deep in a green rag with gold feet.
Blast with the flag on the strap - that's OG.
Stay in shape, hit the gym, lift the weights.
Get super cut, or big and buff - nice and straight.
You got stats: respect, weapon skill,
stamina, muscle, fat, and sex appeal.
You get clothes from Bincos and Prolaps.
Sub Urban, Zip, Victim, and D. Sach.
Watch your back when in rival hoods.
They'll test just to guess if your survival's good (survival's good).
Duckin' shells at the Cluckin' Bell.
Jump out bustin', gunnin' till they tuck their tail.
It seem like I'm on impossible missions (impossible missions).
Twisted predicaments, hostile positions (hostile positions).
Tenpenny and Pulaski harass me.
Cop cars been on our ass the last past week.