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It's paper over pussy, chips over a bitch |
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Dough over a hoe, but suckers, they think with they dick |
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It's dollars over nana, c-notes over a slut |
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G's over breezies, yeah nigga, what's up? |
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[VERSE 1: Mac Mall] |
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Some more of it, how you want it, patented and proven potent |
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Pockets bulgin, diamonds glowin, ain't no secret, we on one |
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Lights, camera, action, muthafucka, it's mackin |
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Release the Jacksons, let em go, they ain't go buy the captains |
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And I'm a general that's spittin flows and peelin hoes |
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Smokin dope, drinkin XO, but don't fuck with no chemicals |
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Your wifey wanna try me, hook up and give me body |
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But it's paper over pussy, break bread or get from by me |
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Little mama, you fly, but I'm sharper than all |
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Save that drama for partner, spendin up at the bar |
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See, he like trickin chips, I just wanna put dick between your lips |
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Hey, get another rock just for kicks, bust two nuts and then I switch |
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Hey player, she with your, but if you know like I do |
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You get further with baby, she lookin like she wanna choose |
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And I'm one of those niggas that go hard on these bitches |
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Make em pay for the game and always charge em interest |
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[CHORUS] |
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[VERSE 2: Mac Mall] |
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You're owin me for knowin me and I'ma put ya down like you're 'posed to be |
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Girl, give MC nose to me, let him pay rent and buy groceries |
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Let that man play step daddy and take care of them kids |
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If he knew how you was swallowin nuts, that fool'd have a fit |
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See, I'm a savage, I get mannish when I'm doggin yo bitch |
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You're sittin home on your punk ass, you sittin, be pussy-whipped |
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Gotta be smokin that shit if you think she ain't gettin hit |
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By Mister Iatola Komani from that Sesed Out click |
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When you found out you was heart-broke, couldn't believe she was cut-throat |
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But I ain't tryin to get comfortable, I'm just tryin to get my loot on |
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These niggas off the hinges, lose they mind over these chickens |
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Showin out for these tramps, and I forgot to mention |
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She's goin both ways now, chassy, quick to lay it down |
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Lip gloss and no drawers at the club wildin out |
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Little turf dirt-ass bitch |
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Lip gloss and no drawers, at the club wildin out |
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[CHORUS] |
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[VERSE 3: Mac Mall] |
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Now I betcha I won't sweat her and I be damned if I jocked |
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The broad top notch, a dime piece, to me they punk rock |
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I give her a job and had the little chick on the clock |
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Bringin me ??? while busters steady sprung on the twat |
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You see, I rather count them big heads till my fingers ache |
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Than have a fake fine bitch in my face, all in the way |
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And Mister Mackin don't have breaks in my paper chase |
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I have a breezy sellin her crate and transportin weight |
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Cashin faulty checks in the bank |
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She everything that daddy want she get and what she get I take |
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I'm boss-gamin, boy, you're just small change |
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And you'll forever be a sucker, for a guy, for a dame |
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Look at them lames |
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[CHORUS] |
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Yeah nigga, what's up |
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Yeah nigga, what's up |
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Yeah nigga, what's up [x3] |
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You know |
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See man, these niggas claimin player |
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But the whole time |
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Man, they bonafide tricks |
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Yeah, Femi on the beat |
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Boss Game on the m-i-c |
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It ain't nothin new, you know how we do |
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[CHORUS] |
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Mac Mall |
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Sesed Out |
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535 proof |
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Yeah nigga, what.. |
