| Uhh, pussy for lunch
|
| Pop all the balloons and spit in the punch, haha
|
| Yeah, kush in the blunts
|
| I ride through your block, see a foot in the trunk
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| I don’t know why they keep playing, they better re-plan
|
| I’m giving 'em the blues, Bobby Blue Bland
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| Together we stand, and fall on y’all
|
| Balling with my Bloods, call it B-ball
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| These dames ain’t shit, Young Money is
|
| I got Mars bars, 3 Musketeers
|
| Come through, coupe same color as veneers
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| And you know I’m riding with the toast, cheers
|
| Yeah, now I’m back on my grizz
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| And y’all’s a bunch a squares like a mothafuckin' grid
|
| Shit, fuck with me and get hid
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| I finger-fuck the Nina, make that bitch have kids
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| Just do it? |
| My nigga, I just did
|
| Ain’t a motherfucker deeper than me, bitch, dig
|
| You dig? |
| This here, this big biz
|
| And I scream, «Fuck it!» |
| Whoever it is
|
| I am the rhyming oasis
|
| I got a cup of your time, I won’t waste it
|
| I got my foot on the line, I’m not racing
|
| I thank God that I am not basic
|
| Oww! |
| I-I am not basic
|
| I-I-I, am-am not a human being!
|
| Uhh, rockstar baby
|
| Now come to my suite and get lockjaw baby
|
| Rich nigga looking at the cops all crazy
|
| That’s that mob shit, nigga, Martin Scorsese
|
| Heater close range, cause people are strange
|
| But I bet that AK-47 keep you ordained
|
| You can’t see Weezy nor Wayne, I’m in the far lane
|
| I’m running this shit, hundred yard gain
|
| Uhh, swag on infinity
|
| I’m killing 'em, see the white flag from the enemy
|
| Shoot you in your head and leave your dash full of memories
|
| Father forgive me for my brash delivery
|
| I-I-I would try you, I wouldn’t lie dude
|
| I must be sticky cause them bitches got their eyes glued
|
| Young Money, baby, we the shit, like fly food
|
| Y’all can’t see us, like the bride’s shoes
|
| I stand tall like I’m motherfucking 9'2″
|
| I scream «Motherfuck 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
|
| I am the rhyming oasis
|
| I got a cup of your time, I won’t waste it
|
| I got my foot on the line, I’m not racing
|
| I thank God that I am not basic
|
| I am not basic
|
| I-I am not basic
|
| I thank God that I am not basic
|
| I-I-I, am-am not a human being!
|
| Re-re-re-re-reporting from another world
|
| Magazine full of bullets, you can be my cover girl
|
| Bless got the weed rolling thicker than a Southern girl
|
| Strong-arm rap like a nigga did a hundred curls
|
| Rockstar biatch, check out how we rock
|
| And if this ain’t hip-hop, it must be knee-hop
|
| I’m higher than a tree top, she lick my lollipop
|
| I still get my candy from your girlfriend’s sweet shop
|
| Spitting that heat rock, I’m smooth, not Pete Rock
|
| And my, and my money on et cetera, three dots
|
| Still get a stomach ache every time I see cops
|
| You better run motherfucker, cause we not
|
| You better run 'til your feet stop
|
| You ain’t even a fucking alphabet in my teapot
|
| Colder than a ski shop, holding on to the top
|
| And even if I let go, I still won’t d-rop
|
| I am the rhyming oasis
|
| I got a cup of your time, I won’t waste it
|
| I got my foot on the line, I’m not racing
|
| I thank God that I am not basic
|
| I-I-I-I, I, I am not
|
| I-I-I, am-am not a human being |