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Verse 1
Uh, pussy for lunch
Pop all the balloons, and spit in the punch
Haha, yeah, kush in the blunts
I ride thru ya block, see a foot in a trunk
I don't know why they keep playing, they better re-plan
I'm giving them the blues, Bobby Blue Bland
Together we stand, and fall on ya'll
Balling with my bloods, call it b-ball
These days aint shit, Young Money is
I got Mar's bars, Three Musketeers
Come through, Coupe same color as veneers
And you know I'm riding with the toast, cheers
Yeah, now I'm back on my grizz
And ya'lls a buncha squares like a mothafuckin' grid
Shit, fuck with me and get hit
I finger fuck the nina, make that bitch have kids
Just do it, my nigga I just did
And aint a mothafucka deeper than me, bitch dig
Ya dig, this here is big biz
And I scream fuck it, whoever it is
Verse 2
Uh, rockstar baby
Now come to my suite and get lock-jaw baby
Rich nigga looking at the cops all crazy
That's that mob shit nigga, Martin Scorsese
Heater close range, cuz people are strange
But I bet that AK-47 keep ya ordain
You can't see Weezy, nor Wayne
I'm in the far lane
I'm running this shit, hundred yard gain
Uh, swag on infinity
I'm killing them, see the white flag from the enemy
Shoot you in ya head and leave ya dash full of memories
Father forgive me for my brash delivery
I wouldn't try you, I wouldn't lie dude
I must be sticky, cuz them bitches got they eyes glued
Young Money baby, we the shit like fly food
Ya'll can't see us, like the bride's shoes
I stand tall, like I'm mothafuckin' 9'2
I scream mothafuck you, and whoever designed you
And if you think you hot, then obviously you were lied to
And we don't die, we multiply and then we come divide you
Verse 3
Reporting from another world
Magazine full of bullets, you can be my cover girl
Blunts, got the weed, roll it thicker than a southern girl
Strong arm rap, like a nigga did a hundred curls
Rockstar bitch, check out how we rock
And if this aint Hip-Hop, it must be knee-hop
I'm higher than a tree-top, she lick my lolli-pop
I still get my candy from ya girlfriend sweet shop
Spittin' that heat rock, I'm smooth not Pete Rock
And my- and my money on et cetera , three dots
Still get a stomach ache, everytime I see cops
Ya better run mothafucka, cuz we not
You better run til ya feet stop
You aint even a fucking alphabet in my tea-pot
Colder than a ski-shop, holding on to the top
And even if I let go, I still won't geee-rop
Uh, pussy for lunch
Pop all the balloons, and spit in the punch
Haha, yeah, kush in the blunts
I ride thru ya block, see a foot in a trunk
I don't know why they keep playing, they better re-plan
I'm giving them the blues, Bobby Blue Bland
Together we stand, and fall on ya'll
Balling with my bloods, call it b-ball
These days aint shit, Young Money is
I got Mar's bars, Three Musketeers
Come through, Coupe same color as veneers
And you know I'm riding with the toast, cheers
Yeah, now I'm back on my grizz
And ya'lls a buncha squares like a mothafuckin' grid
Shit, fuck with me and get hit
I finger fuck the nina, make that bitch have kids
Just do it, my nigga I just did
And aint a mothafucka deeper than me, bitch dig
Ya dig, this here is big biz
And I scream fuck it, whoever it is
Verse 2
Uh, rockstar baby
Now come to my suite and get lock-jaw baby
Rich nigga looking at the cops all crazy
That's that mob shit nigga, Martin Scorsese
Heater close range, cuz people are strange
But I bet that AK-47 keep ya ordain
You can't see Weezy, nor Wayne
I'm in the far lane
I'm running this shit, hundred yard gain
Uh, swag on infinity
I'm killing them, see the white flag from the enemy
Shoot you in ya head and leave ya dash full of memories
Father forgive me for my brash delivery
I wouldn't try you, I wouldn't lie dude
I must be sticky, cuz them bitches got they eyes glued
Young Money baby, we the shit like fly food
Ya'll can't see us, like the bride's shoes
I stand tall, like I'm mothafuckin' 9'2
I scream mothafuck you, and whoever designed you
And if you think you hot, then obviously you were lied to
And we don't die, we multiply and then we come divide you
Verse 3
Reporting from another world
Magazine full of bullets, you can be my cover girl
Blunts, got the weed, roll it thicker than a southern girl
Strong arm rap, like a nigga did a hundred curls
Rockstar bitch, check out how we rock
And if this aint Hip-Hop, it must be knee-hop
I'm higher than a tree-top, she lick my lolli-pop
I still get my candy from ya girlfriend sweet shop
Spittin' that heat rock, I'm smooth not Pete Rock
And my- and my money on et cetera , three dots
Still get a stomach ache, everytime I see cops
Ya better run mothafucka, cuz we not
You better run til ya feet stop
You aint even a fucking alphabet in my tea-pot
Colder than a ski-shop, holding on to the top
And even if I let go, I still won't geee-rop
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