| So put your money, where your mouth at
|
| If it’s cheddar and chips, then we about that
|
| Fraud off in the game, baby I doubt that
|
| There go the East and the West, (now where the South at nigga)
|
| I wear platinum on the chest, cause I just can’t rest
|
| C.M.G. |
| and BBS, nationwide success
|
| C-Note the big shot, and Lil' Keke the Don
|
| We been Houston trend setting, baby since day one
|
| Start over and do it again, it don’t matter to me
|
| Rest in peace to DJ Screw, from the S.U.C
|
| It’s the year 2−1, we still don’t bar none
|
| Fade 'em all when we ball, keep the game on the run
|
| We put the lick down, multiplied the ends
|
| Then put the split down, Southsi' for li'
|
| We from the Southside nigga, we posted at the bar
|
| Me and Ke' the 'gar, we be shining like a star
|
| Them deuces on the car, cold drank mixed with bar
|
| Boys recognize who we are, cause we coming with that hard
|
| I wonder which ride, we gon flip this year
|
| 2002 Escalade, yes we skipped the year
|
| About to jump through the Kappa, the young pro rapper
|
| Three or four girls in my car, a true macker
|
| The young paper stacker, equipped with game
|
| Nigga welcome to the section, where we hog the lane
|
| So put your money, where your mouth at
|
| Collecting chips and buying new whips, yeah I’m about that
|
| This is hardcore, thug life
|
| Tattoos and paying dues, and getting feddy every night
|
| Hoes sweating me, niggas betting me
|
| That the laws behind my Lam', think they could catch me
|
| I think not, I’ma mash to the spot
|
| Turning corners hitting blocks, got the sturning wheel hot
|
| Alright catch a flight, hot-lanta next night
|
| Looking for some fire green, the price is right
|
| Come on they say the South, bout to fall off
|
| It’s the fourth quarter nigga, but the game ain’t called off
|
| We ain’t stopping, till the tapes is hauled off
|
| Even if it take the Glock nine, and the sawed off
|
| For real, it ain’t no telling where the South at
|
| Quit bumping your gums, and put your money your mouth at
|
| I guess we blowed up, like you thought we wasn’t
|
| See the double R, rap star on buttons
|
| Shining kinda dim, northstar like nothing
|
| And I’m stomping on the snitches, that be hating and fronting
|
| From the Clover to the Wood, nigga it’s all good
|
| At the dome out in Miami Florida, it’s all hood
|
| Recognize homeboy, we be South for life
|
| And my boys’ll get more, from lifting so much ice
|
| Home of the piece and chain, diamond teeth and thangs
|
| Home of the pinky rings, and the raw cocaine
|
| These niggas swanging elbows, and acting all wild
|
| While I’m trying to win a Grammy, like I’m Destiny’s Child
|
| Smoking black and mild, and getting crunk on stage
|
| Fuck in the after Source, nigga we front page
|
| See me backstage, strapped with a gauge
|
| Taking rap to a whole 'nother phaze, dog I’m any ways |