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Yo, yo we can't stay alive forever |
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So if shit hit the fan then we might as well die together |
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I'm high as ever, more hoes and more cheddar |
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G-Unit move around wit them pounds and berreta's |
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Yea faggot, if I want it I'm gon' have it |
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Regardless if it's handed to me or I gotta grab it |
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Don't make a ass outta yaself tryin to stop me |
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I'm cocky, raps rocky, nigga you sloppy |
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You know that I'm, 8 levels above you nigga |
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I'll club you nigga, I never heard of you nigga, its ugly nigga |
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I'm the wrong one to provoke |
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You rattin on niggas is only gon' leave you smoked |
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So the only thing left now is toast for these cowrads |
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I got no friends, f**k most of these cowards |
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They pop shit 'till we start approaching these cowards |
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While we lay around dollars, they lay around flowers |
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[Lloyd Banks] |
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I got a intergangstress who argue and steams wit reefer |
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And who flip when I call a bitch like she Queen Latifah |
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Not all the vehicle's is long enough to stash the streetsweeper |
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This shit can get uglier than the Master P sneaker |
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We slidin through the ruckus, wit prada on the chuckus |
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Soon as spring break ho's home from college wanna f**k us |
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I ain't here to drop knowledge on you suckas |
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I'll sick rottweiler's on you f**kas, cops followin to cuff us |
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Top dollars to discuss this, whole lotta zeros |
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When it comes to paper I blow a soul outta aero |
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I'ma break before I lay floor berry |
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Besides, every rapper ain't a star, nigga plad ain't bulbary |
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You can't tame Lloyd, smokin by the big screen |
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You changin the channel looks like I'm playin the game boy |
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I know the rocks botherin ya vision |
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But reach and I'll put a dot on ya head like its part of yo religion |
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Why party wit a pigeon? |
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I'm blowin a 10 'cause Bush handin flyers for a party in a prison |
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I'm in the gucci vest wit the green and red straps |
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I'm the last rapper to scare niggas since Craig Mack |
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Now every morning's a fast start |
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And there aint problem gettin dressed 'cause my closet got more aisles than pathmark |
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Run, move startin to raid |
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And leave wit 12 shells in ya mouth like a carton of eggs |
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I'm the young pimp pardon my age |
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I don't got long hair but if I did she be partin my braids |
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We just find out what club they at |
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Take 'em wit us, and run a train on 'em like a subway mat |
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Yer advance is a grey acura |
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These record labels got most artists gettin f**ked like the gay rappa' |
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I go to college on a tour |
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I'm goin down in history nigga, next to Wallace and Shakur |
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I keep ya ammo clean, tec's polished in the drawer |
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Camera's by the hamper that mine into the floor |
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By now, you probably heard of me |
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Fresh outta surgery, flashy as a f**k, you gon' have to murder me |
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Burglary, were leavin wit cha nike's burgandy, White T, burgandy |
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You match now, back down |
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Niggas love to hate you, but love you when you disappear |
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Catch me on the boat wit weed smoke and fishing gear |
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Heavy when I toke, C notes from different years |
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Besly in the robe, re-motes for liftin chairs |
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We ain't rich, but we be glad to snatch ya |
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I send cars to your crib like I'm a cab dispatcha |
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You better off wit ya stupid guys, lookin for a coupe to drive |
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You ain't gettin nuttin but ya french fries supersized |
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It's a damn shame y'all still local |
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I'm in a million dollar studio layin my vocals |
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Nigga |
| [50 Cent] |
|
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Still in the projects nigga, you ain't goin nowhere |
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You gon' f**kin be there for the rest of yo muthaf**kin life |
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And yo momma said, I'm supposed to tell you somethin..... |
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To encourage you, somethin positive |
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Aight well I ain't gon' lie to you muthaf**ka, he ain't goin nowhere |
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Get yaself a beer, get on the f**kin curb |
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F**kin dirtbag |
