| Song | Like Whaaat (Remix) |
| Artist | Problem |
| Artist | Wiz Khalifa |
| Artist | Tyga |
| Artist | Chris Brown |
| Artist | Master P |
| Album | Like Whaaat (Remix) |
| Who dat, talkin’ bout, who dat? | |
| Run up on me, you’ll get your ass beat blue black | |
| Go on get nerve, I’m off the curb | |
| Push mountains of herb, you niggas already heard | |
| The bro Berg keep a pistol gripped pump on his lap at all times | |
| Wherever, however, ’cause young niggas they trying | |
| See ‘em and be like “huh, nigga, what?” | |
| “Huh? Give a fuck like what?” | |
| Hell yeah, this the remix, these bitches comin’ harder than cement | |
| Put the blow to they nose, no Kleenex | |
| Shining like the sun, no Phoenix | |
| Diamond Lane gang wear it big, no 3X (free Miller) | |
| You gangbangin’ foolie chucker | |
| More niggas still good on the block, Timmy Duncan | |
| Knocking niggas out they style like a fucking 50 dumpin' | |
| Labels can’t advance me, that Cali nigga that got Diddy dancing (Problem!!) | |
| [Hook: Problem] | |
| I'm just doing my thang, fingers in the sky | |
| Banging my gang like uh | |
| Go on fall back, cause you don't want no problems like that | |
| Cause we gonna be like huh, nigga what | |
| Huh, give a fuck, nigga whaat | |
| Huh, nigga what | |
| Huh, give a fuck, nigga whaat | |
| [Verse 2: Wiz Khalifa] | |
| What’s smackin 30, under 30 | |
| I’m a young rich black man | |
| What’s happening | |
| No it ain’t Taylor, less' my hands is in | |
| Grands I’mma spend, grams put them in | |
| Seen that Bombay, ran from the gin | |
| Staying low key, still they know me | |
| Smoking OG, and I blow it by the O-Z | |
| We faded ho please | |
| I’m getting stupid high, me and P-R-O-B | |
| My J’s super old, Rick Owens, no sleeves | |
| We at the after-party, you can bring you own weed | |
| And We gon’ take shots until someone has to drive us home | |
| Come from a place where they do tote that chrome | |
| Smile on they face, but ain’t nothing a game | |
| Stacking that paper, don’t get in their way | |
| Or Rat-tat-tat | |
| [Hook] | |
| [Verse 3: Chris Brown] | |
| Look, ok it’s OHB so nigga, bag bag | |
| I got an ounce of that bounce in a Glad bag | |
| Molly fucking up my liver, got a bad back | |
| And if you trying to fuck with her, I’mma tax that | |
| Ass all on the floor, I’m trynna pour it up bitch | |
| Lean on my dick so slow it up bitch | |
| And the police trynna pull up on the scene | |
| Then they ask you what you seen | |
| I ain’t seen shit | |
| A hundred niggas right behind me that’s the drum line | |
| All you hear is ‘blat, blat’, hit it one time | |
| Fuck a punch line, nigga had bread since the lunch line | |
| I can put them soldiers on the front line | |
| Open season, just nigga give me the reason | |
| To bust, and just let it squeeze and | |
| My rope-a-dope is the meanest | |
| I box you up in the freezer | |
| Comatose, paraplegic | |
| I’m dodging the misdemeanors | |
| Hoping I don’t get subpoenas but I… | |
| [Hook] | |
| [Verse 4: Tyga] | |
| Huh? banging out the truck | |
| I’m T-Raww, bitch, go on let a nigga fuck | |
| Huh? bitch you heard what I said | |
| Your bitch is a bird, but I don’t give her bread | |
| What? Problem pass the weed | |
| These niggas claim they ballin’ | |
| Then why they clothes free? | |
| These motherfuckers cheap | |
| Like a nose bleed seat | |
| You ain’t gotta go to Miami | |
| Bitch to feel the heat (WOO!) | |
| LA, burner to your belly | |
| My niggas OGs, keep the burner in the telly | |
| Getting head till it ache, that’s a motherfucking headache | |
| Do this shit tonight, send it straight to felly felly | |
| Nigga Why? I’m selling dreams, the money team | |
| Niggas spend crack but they ain’t got no fiends | |
| Got the juice and the cream | |
| Wu-Tang, Raheim | |
| I’m a motherfucking, money machine nigga | |
| [Hook] | |
| [Master P] | |
| How ya do that there! | |
| [Verse 5: Master P] | |
| Probably getting paper | |
| But don’t fuck with you broke hoes, niggas, or you haters | |
| Maaan D. Howard with the motherfucking Lakers | |
| I represent the street, No Limit is the label | |
| Throw your hoods up, motherfucker where you from? | |
| We in this bitch deep | |
| And it can get dumb | |
| Niggas in the back motherfucker poppin’ bottles | |
| Chasing bad bitches and them niggas throwing dollars | |
| Louis V down from my head to my toes | |
| C-Murder in the pen, and that iron getting swole | |
| Never gave a fuck ’bout no niggas wanna hate | |
| Keep the chopper in the car, case a nigga wanna play | |
| She showed me the titties, I call them bitches Dhali | |
| I know she a freak, cause she gone off molly | |
| Pushing 160 when I’m riding in the go | |
| You ain’t from round here, nigga better walk slow, or get smoked |
| Who dat, talkin' bout, who dat? | |
| Run up on me, you' ll get your ass beat blue black | |
| Go on get nerve, I' m off the curb | |
| Push mountains of herb, you niggas already heard | |
| The bro Berg keep a pistol gripped pump on his lap at all times | |
| Wherever, however, ' cause young niggas they trying | |
| See ' em and be like " huh, nigga, what?" | |
| " Huh? Give a fuck like what?" | |
| Hell yeah, this the remix, these bitches comin' harder than cement | |
| Put the blow to they nose, no Kleenex | |
| Shining like the sun, no Phoenix | |
| Diamond Lane gang wear it big, no 3X free Miller | |
| You gangbangin' foolie chucker | |
| More niggas still good on the block, Timmy Duncan | |
| Knocking niggas out they style like a fucking 50 dumpin' | |
| Labels can' t advance me, that Cali nigga that got Diddy dancing Problem!! | |
| Hook: Problem | |
| I' m just doing my thang, fingers in the sky | |
| Banging my gang like uh | |
| Go on fall back, cause you don' t want no problems like that | |
| Cause we gonna be like huh, nigga what | |
| Huh, give a fuck, nigga whaat | |
| Huh, nigga what | |
| Huh, give a fuck, nigga whaat | |
| Verse 2: Wiz Khalifa | |
| What' s smackin 30, under 30 | |
| I' m a young rich black man | |
| What' s happening | |
| No it ain' t Taylor, less' my hands is in | |
| Grands I' mma spend, grams put them in | |
| Seen that Bombay, ran from the gin | |
| Staying low key, still they know me | |
| Smoking OG, and I blow it by the OZ | |
| We faded ho please | |
| I' m getting stupid high, me and PROB | |
| My J' s super old, Rick Owens, no sleeves | |
| We at the afterparty, you can bring you own weed | |
| And We gon' take shots until someone has to drive us home | |
| Come from a place where they do tote that chrome | |
| Smile on they face, but ain' t nothing a game | |
| Stacking that paper, don' t get in their way | |
| Or Rattattat | |
| Hook | |
| Verse 3: Chris Brown | |
| Look, ok it' s OHB so nigga, bag bag | |
| I got an ounce of that bounce in a Glad bag | |
| Molly fucking up my liver, got a bad back | |
| And if you trying to fuck with her, I' mma tax that | |
| Ass all on the floor, I' m trynna pour it up bitch | |
| Lean on my dick so slow it up bitch | |
| And the police trynna pull up on the scene | |
| Then they ask you what you seen | |
| I ain' t seen shit | |
| A hundred niggas right behind me that' s the drum line | |
| All you hear is ' blat, blat', hit it one time | |
| Fuck a punch line, nigga had bread since the lunch line | |
| I can put them soldiers on the front line | |
| Open season, just nigga give me the reason | |
| To bust, and just let it squeeze and | |
| My ropeadope is the meanest | |
| I box you up in the freezer | |
| Comatose, paraplegic | |
| I' m dodging the misdemeanors | |
| Hoping I don' t get subpoenas but I | |
| Hook | |
| Verse 4: Tyga | |
| Huh? banging out the truck | |
| I' m TRaww, bitch, go on let a nigga fuck | |
| Huh? bitch you heard what I said | |
| Your bitch is a bird, but I don' t give her bread | |
| What? Problem pass the weed | |
| These niggas claim they ballin' | |
| Then why they clothes free? | |
| These motherfuckers cheap | |
| Like a nose bleed seat | |
| You ain' t gotta go to Miami | |
| Bitch to feel the heat WOO! | |
| LA, burner to your belly | |
| My niggas OGs, keep the burner in the telly | |
| Getting head till it ache, that' s a motherfucking headache | |
| Do this shit tonight, send it straight to felly felly | |
| Nigga Why? I' m selling dreams, the money team | |
| Niggas spend crack but they ain' t got no fiends | |
| Got the juice and the cream | |
| WuTang, Raheim | |
| I' m a motherfucking, money machine nigga | |
| Hook | |
| Master P | |
| How ya do that there! | |
| Verse 5: Master P | |
| Probably getting paper | |
| But don' t fuck with you broke hoes, niggas, or you haters | |
| Maaan D. Howard with the motherfucking Lakers | |
| I represent the street, No Limit is the label | |
| Throw your hoods up, motherfucker where you from? | |
| We in this bitch deep | |
| And it can get dumb | |
| Niggas in the back motherfucker poppin' bottles | |
| Chasing bad bitches and them niggas throwing dollars | |
| Louis V down from my head to my toes | |
| CMurder in the pen, and that iron getting swole | |
| Never gave a fuck ' bout no niggas wanna hate | |
| Keep the chopper in the car, case a nigga wanna play | |
| She showed me the titties, I call them bitches Dhali | |
| I know she a freak, cause she gone off molly | |
| Pushing 160 when I' m riding in the go | |
| You ain' t from round here, nigga better walk slow, or get smoked |