| He’s a hustler, unbound by law
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| A self-made millionaire
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| With a wreckless disregard for the haters
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| Ludacris, on «Southern Gangsta»…
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| A true entrepre-negro
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| CEO of Disturbing Tha Peace Records
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| He expanded his empire into multiple profitable businesses
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| Including his Thai food restaurant, Straits
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| Internet sites, WeMix.com
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| And my favorite, MyGhetto.com
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| The MVP of this rap shit
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| Luda! |
| I’m a hustler, BALLER, gangsta, CAP PEELER
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| I stay strapped like your neighborhood trap dealer
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| I got rifles that blow ya below ya bible belt
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| And mac-11's that leave you wetter than Michael Phelps! |
| (woo!)
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| But you’ll be swimmin with the fishes
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| Softer than bitches washin dishes, fool what’s the BUSINESS?
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| I’m already rich, so talk mo' figures (yup)
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| Spit 30 large for cigars of you ho niggas (oww!)
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| I got gangstas that’ll rearrange ya whole face
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| And put your casket on ice, now that’s a cold case (ha!)
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| Never forget where you come or that block’ll bang you
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| I keep my ear to the STREETS like a cocker spaniel
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| I cock and blast you into outer space
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| Break every bone in ya, you so out of place
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| Boom without a trace, you a bluff to block
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| I got some red beams, let’s play connect the dots!
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| He’s the biggest boss, comin outta the M-I-yayo
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| Straight from the «Port of Miami»
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| To keepin it «Trilla»
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| Involved in many heated acts of violence
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| This goes deeper than rap shit
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| He’s worth eight figures
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| So young niggas, boss up
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| I present to you, Rick Ross, the boss
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| I got a letter from the government, the other day
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| I opened and read it, it said «We were hustlers»
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| Had a Lexus at 18, picture that
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| Got a Chevy with pictures on it from pitchin crack
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| Bitch I know Haitians, we speakin Creole
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| Bitch I’m a D-boy, still slingin kilos
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| I got twenty cars, why exaggerate?
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| It cost me five grand just to fill the gas tanks
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| Love the marble floors, got the Greek pillrs
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| Frontin at awards, real street niggas
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| I used to serve shake, now I serve steaks
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| Three squares on a row, call it 3rd Bass
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| Get the Gas Face, chopper in your laugh face
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| Shoot his ass, aim defense is the last case
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| Keep Jewish friends, the newest Benz
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| You in a pool of blood, let me see you swim
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| Hailing from College Park, Georgia
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| Authorities figured they must have been some sort of mob
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| Or illegal organization
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| According to authorities, they made a quarter mil' a week
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| Selling mid-grade, they were some high-rollin hustlers
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| Tity Boi, and Dolla Boy
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| Playaz Circle, A.K.A., the Duffle Bag Boys
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| + (Dolla Boy)
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| Uhh, I’m so sick I wrote this verse in a hospital
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| It’s an election year, I support strippers
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| (We roll like bicycles, icicle flow)
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| (White liquor, my nigga stay on line with the blow)
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| I’m on time with the flow, not a minute nor second late
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| Ain’t no such thing as second place
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| (And every day I live heavyweight, you niggas featherweight)
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| (Fairytale tellin niggas really need to take a break)
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| And the estate got a lake for a backyard
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| (The pool room product put it all on my sacks card)
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| For real? |
| (Yeah, for real) I’m ill, I deal, I did, I will
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| (I got dogs like Cujo, me and Tity two chains ridin in a two do')
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| Bitches catch kudos (you know)
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| Yeah we move weight like sumos
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| And kicks it with them bitches like judo
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| SOUTHSIDE!
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| Playaz Circle, Rick Ross, Ludacris
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| This has been another episode, of «Southern Gangsta»
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| Thanks for tunin in, what’s next for Luda?
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| Well, anything’s possible, in the +Theater of the Mind+ |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Southern Gangsta , by - Ludacris. Song from the album Theater Of The Mind, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп