[Intro]
Is the autotune on?
Hmhmm, good
[Verse]
Young Money
Syrup in the big shot
Time to do the thang
That's word to your wrist watch
Shoot the Glock
Til it burn
Til my wrist lock
Rims hella big
Tires skinny like Chris Rock
Hold the gun sideways
Like O-Dog
Shoot a n***a in his face
Knock his nose off
Make the girls say my name
Like a roll call
Pain k**ers got a n***a about to doze off
Big sh**, n***a
Talk big sh**, n***a
Big bread
Bread like a picnic, n***a
Shake the whole game
Like the hit-stick, n***a
Money spread like germs
Get sick, n***a
Yeah, and f** them other n***as
1-900-Who want it? I deliver
Concrete shoes won't help in the river
I don't care if you was Michael Phelps my n***a
I'm higher than the motherf**ing Alps my n***a
I'm flyer than the motherf**ing stealth my n***a
Young Money sh**, top-shelf my n***a
We the motherf**ers like MILF my n***a
Ahem, flow like syringes
Yea I'm in my mode
Got a code like Da Vinci's
I was in the trenches
Now I'm in the Trump
And everybody watch your back
When you're in the front
You ain't never safe
Stop playing with a gangsta
Bring it to his face
And he ran like a flanker
Bend the girl over
Put her hands on her ankles
I'm all over this Ice Cream beat like sprinkles
"Why, thank you!"
If you's a hater
I'm eating
You's a waiter
Pistol on my hip
Tomb Raider
Holla at your guala
Zoom later
Young Tune, n***a
Typhoon, n***a
And if you think it's sweet
Buy a room, n***a
Damu, n***a
I'm on my gang sh**
She give me good brain
Like she studied at Cambridge
Lighting up a motherf**ing blunt
Stupid fruity swag, like a motherf**ing Runt
And I be with my dog like I motherf**in' hunt
And every day of the week is the first of the month
Audemars Piguet with the diamonds in the face
Can't tell the time cause the diamonds in the face
We can get it popping like a semi automatic
And if you got beef I put the biscuit on a patty
Rockstar tatted
Big-money addict
Running this sh**
Now I'm feeling athletic
I'm on a boat b**h
Getting sea sick
Stop playing
I'm fresher then a Degree stick
Street sh**
Well, of course
I smoke mad weed
I'm on my high-horse
Please don't shoot me down
I land feet flat
Then walk a million miles
With New Orleans on my back
Hah, I need a ma**age
And when it come to hoes, man
I got a collage
Finger on the bu*ton
n***a just stuntin'
If you ain't the bank teller, don't tell me nothin'
Kush so strong you can smell me comin'
b**h, I go hard like the boy from "300"
You think y'all kick it
Well boy, we puntin'
Young Money, baby
We the sh**, weak stomachs
No Ceilings, motherf**er