| Luda：Back up on dat ass , | |
| Back to put rappers on one knee like they bout to run 100 meter dash, | |
| Bow down to greatness, | |
| before i get pissed and run up in the stands like the Indiana Pacers, | |
| Covered all my bases, straight, no chasers, | |
| Diamonds on my chain look like my neck's full of glacers, | |
| Titanic flow, Titanic dough, | |
| women on my nuts like 'Where da Titanic go?' | |
| I been scourin' da earth, | |
| makin' my fans catch da holy ghost at my shows like ya grandma at church, | |
| And the fat lady singin', it's ova for you rappers, | |
| Cant none of yall bust your just sacs full of semen, | |
| And I got da women screamin', | |
| and they could catch my balls on any given sunday like my name's Willy Beaman, | |
| Or LL Cool, so if ya boyfriend thinks your loyal to his ass then he's a motherf***in fool, | |
| Got jewels on my pinky, jewels on my wrist | |
| Iconic status and his name is Ludacris, | |
| Bitch please, you messin wit some real O.G's, | |
| Wit million dolla whips dat I ship from overseas, | |
| Got a pocket full of G'z, | |
| and the inconvenient truth is that the ozone is back cuz I been smokin' all da trees, | |
| The globe is warmin' up when we fire up the blunt, | |
| And put it in the air like Evil Knievel stunts, | |
| Wat you want from me? I got pistols for da haters, | |
| Ya fam will be in black like the playin' for da Raiders, | |
| And ya music isn't favored, | |
| and DJ's they neva bring it back like when you go and borrow somethin' from ya neighbor, | |
| Like a cup full of sugar, a rope full of salt, | |
| The name of my car insurance is YO F***IN FAULT, | |
| And if you sittin on chrome, | |
| I'll call up my boys and have you stripped of ya medals like Marion Jones, nigga ... | |
| Luda: Back up on da scene, | |
| back to put a nail in these rappers' coffins I got the hammer in my jeans, | |
| Call me Mr.Fixit, | |
| barrel hotter than a fresh batch of home-made buttermilk biscuits, | |
| A-tisket, a-tasket, a custom-made casket, | |
| Luda leaves intruders stretched out like gymnastics, | |
| And acrobatics I'm superstar status, | |
| the mouth of the South like gangsta grillz you bastard, | |
| The international traveler, | |
| and I may not be much to you but I'm the sh*t out in Africa, | |
| So put ya fist up, | |
| even the statue of liberty lit a flame for the way that I lit my wrist up, | |
| You can't compete wit me, | |
| I got 'em stuck like I made a thousand rappers put shackles on they feet wit me, | |
| And then I broke free, | |
| I'll let 'em loose when Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston become drug-free, | |
| I'm the baddest mother shut it like Shaft was, | |
| leavin' rappers wit headaches like bad drugs, | |
| They shoulda warned ya, | |
| you got defeated by the heat but,eh, we'll just say we Alonzo Mourn'd ya, | |
| So Cater coroner, | |
| I'll show up to yo funeral wit some gators like I'm fresh outta Florida, | |
| Call me the swamp thing, | |
| yall headed in the wrong direction like you hit the subway and caught the wrong train, | |
| So don't f**k wit it, | |
| I'm sendin' lyrical bullets right at ya dome f**k niggaz betta duck wit it, | |
| Or else you stuck wit it, | |
| You'll get stalked so bad you'll leava da scene thinkin eight Young Buck's did it, | |
| But not in Cashville, | |
| you lost yo feelin' like comin down off X chasin' effects of yo last pill, | |
| You f***in Daffy Dill, You's a Daffy Duck, | |
| And I'm the undefeated champ, yall niggas suck! |
| Luda: Back up on dat ass , | |
| Back to put rappers on one knee like they bout to run 100 meter dash, | |
| Bow down to greatness, | |
| before i get pissed and run up in the stands like the Indiana Pacers, | |
| Covered all my bases, straight, no chasers, | |
| Diamonds on my chain look like my neck' s full of glacers, | |
| Titanic flow, Titanic dough, | |
| women on my nuts like ' Where da Titanic go?' | |
| I been scourin' da earth, | |
| makin' my fans catch da holy ghost at my shows like ya grandma at church, | |
| And the fat lady singin', it' s ova for you rappers, | |
| Cant none of yall bust your just sacs full of semen, | |
| And I got da women screamin', | |
| and they could catch my balls on any given sunday like my name' s Willy Beaman, | |
| Or LL Cool, so if ya boyfriend thinks your loyal to his ass then he' s a motherf in fool, | |
| Got jewels on my pinky, jewels on my wrist | |
| Iconic status and his name is Ludacris, | |
| Bitch please, you messin wit some real O. G' s, | |
| Wit million dolla whips dat I ship from overseas, | |
| Got a pocket full of G' z, | |
| and the inconvenient truth is that the ozone is back cuz I been smokin' all da trees, | |
| The globe is warmin' up when we fire up the blunt, | |
| And put it in the air like Evil Knievel stunts, | |
| Wat you want from me? I got pistols for da haters, | |
| Ya fam will be in black like the playin' for da Raiders, | |
| And ya music isn' t favored, | |
| and DJ' s they neva bring it back like when you go and borrow somethin' from ya neighbor, | |
| Like a cup full of sugar, a rope full of salt, | |
| The name of my car insurance is YO F IN FAULT, | |
| And if you sittin on chrome, | |
| I' ll call up my boys and have you stripped of ya medals like Marion Jones, nigga ... | |
| Luda: Back up on da scene, | |
| back to put a nail in these rappers' coffins I got the hammer in my jeans, | |
| Call me Mr. Fixit, | |
| barrel hotter than a fresh batch of homemade buttermilk biscuits, | |
| Atisket, atasket, a custommade casket, | |
| Luda leaves intruders stretched out like gymnastics, | |
| And acrobatics I' m superstar status, | |
| the mouth of the South like gangsta grillz you bastard, | |
| The international traveler, | |
| and I may not be much to you but I' m the sh t out in Africa, | |
| So put ya fist up, | |
| even the statue of liberty lit a flame for the way that I lit my wrist up, | |
| You can' t compete wit me, | |
| I got ' em stuck like I made a thousand rappers put shackles on they feet wit me, | |
| And then I broke free, | |
| I' ll let ' em loose when Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston become drugfree, | |
| I' m the baddest mother shut it like Shaft was, | |
| leavin' rappers wit headaches like bad drugs, | |
| They shoulda warned ya, | |
| you got defeated by the heat but, eh, we' ll just say we Alonzo Mourn' d ya, | |
| So Cater coroner, | |
| I' ll show up to yo funeral wit some gators like I' m fresh outta Florida, | |
| Call me the swamp thing, | |
| yall headed in the wrong direction like you hit the subway and caught the wrong train, | |
| So don' t f k wit it, | |
| I' m sendin' lyrical bullets right at ya dome f k niggaz betta duck wit it, | |
| Or else you stuck wit it, | |
| You' ll get stalked so bad you' ll leava da scene thinkin eight Young Buck' s did it, | |
| But not in Cashville, | |
| you lost yo feelin' like comin down off X chasin' effects of yo last pill, | |
| You f in Daffy Dill, You' s a Daffy Duck, | |
| And I' m the undefeated champ, yall niggas suck! |
| Luda: Back up on dat ass , | |
| Back to put rappers on one knee like they bout to run 100 meter dash, | |
| Bow down to greatness, | |
| before i get pissed and run up in the stands like the Indiana Pacers, | |
| Covered all my bases, straight, no chasers, | |
| Diamonds on my chain look like my neck' s full of glacers, | |
| Titanic flow, Titanic dough, | |
| women on my nuts like ' Where da Titanic go?' | |
| I been scourin' da earth, | |
| makin' my fans catch da holy ghost at my shows like ya grandma at church, | |
| And the fat lady singin', it' s ova for you rappers, | |
| Cant none of yall bust your just sacs full of semen, | |
| And I got da women screamin', | |
| and they could catch my balls on any given sunday like my name' s Willy Beaman, | |
| Or LL Cool, so if ya boyfriend thinks your loyal to his ass then he' s a motherf in fool, | |
| Got jewels on my pinky, jewels on my wrist | |
| Iconic status and his name is Ludacris, | |
| Bitch please, you messin wit some real O. G' s, | |
| Wit million dolla whips dat I ship from overseas, | |
| Got a pocket full of G' z, | |
| and the inconvenient truth is that the ozone is back cuz I been smokin' all da trees, | |
| The globe is warmin' up when we fire up the blunt, | |
| And put it in the air like Evil Knievel stunts, | |
| Wat you want from me? I got pistols for da haters, | |
| Ya fam will be in black like the playin' for da Raiders, | |
| And ya music isn' t favored, | |
| and DJ' s they neva bring it back like when you go and borrow somethin' from ya neighbor, | |
| Like a cup full of sugar, a rope full of salt, | |
| The name of my car insurance is YO F IN FAULT, | |
| And if you sittin on chrome, | |
| I' ll call up my boys and have you stripped of ya medals like Marion Jones, nigga ... | |
| Luda: Back up on da scene, | |
| back to put a nail in these rappers' coffins I got the hammer in my jeans, | |
| Call me Mr. Fixit, | |
| barrel hotter than a fresh batch of homemade buttermilk biscuits, | |
| Atisket, atasket, a custommade casket, | |
| Luda leaves intruders stretched out like gymnastics, | |
| And acrobatics I' m superstar status, | |
| the mouth of the South like gangsta grillz you bastard, | |
| The international traveler, | |
| and I may not be much to you but I' m the sh t out in Africa, | |
| So put ya fist up, | |
| even the statue of liberty lit a flame for the way that I lit my wrist up, | |
| You can' t compete wit me, | |
| I got ' em stuck like I made a thousand rappers put shackles on they feet wit me, | |
| And then I broke free, | |
| I' ll let ' em loose when Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston become drugfree, | |
| I' m the baddest mother shut it like Shaft was, | |
| leavin' rappers wit headaches like bad drugs, | |
| They shoulda warned ya, | |
| you got defeated by the heat but, eh, we' ll just say we Alonzo Mourn' d ya, | |
| So Cater coroner, | |
| I' ll show up to yo funeral wit some gators like I' m fresh outta Florida, | |
| Call me the swamp thing, | |
| yall headed in the wrong direction like you hit the subway and caught the wrong train, | |
| So don' t f k wit it, | |
| I' m sendin' lyrical bullets right at ya dome f k niggaz betta duck wit it, | |
| Or else you stuck wit it, | |
| You' ll get stalked so bad you' ll leava da scene thinkin eight Young Buck' s did it, | |
| But not in Cashville, | |
| you lost yo feelin' like comin down off X chasin' effects of yo last pill, | |
| You f in Daffy Dill, You' s a Daffy Duck, | |
| And I' m the undefeated champ, yall niggas suck! |
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