Lyrics $ad Millionaire (Feat. Brownstone) - Luniz, Brownstone

$ad Millionaire (Feat. Brownstone)

Oh, oh, ohhh
Oh, oh, ohh, hey
Verse 1 *(Yukmouth)*
Uh
Niggas be havin the mutha fuckin blues
Like 5−0-5's
I won’t lie
Homicide
Gram will cry
Pray for me that I won’t die
Suicide
I won’t try
Bullets fly
Drive-by
Don’t let it slide, do or die
You an I, slide by
Catch them niggas off my side
Wit nothin to hide body die rot
On they porch
When I expectin some sort of drive-by
Type retaliation
Under styles I lace, MOBBulation
Lets begin breakin down the situation
When, the end of our frustration
So while we racin down the block, wit a thirty-eight, an Glock
The cops is waitin to umm
Accelerate on yo vehicle
Run down yo vehicle
Even if they have to gun down yo vehicle
Nigga, up in these high-speedaz
Police they be the Rosco P. Coltrane
Swervin in an outta lanes
Runnin from O-H-A
With a throw-away
A throw-away
Pistol
Every mutha fucka wanna peep
Chorus x2 *(Brownstone & Yukmouth)*
Millionaire!
Dreams of big millions play
Ever seen a sad millionaire?
I thought that money make us happy
Verse 2 *(Yukmouth)*
What if I was a millionaire
Huh
A major playa on the block
That a mac daddy, drivin a black Caddy couldn’t stop
Hella strap happy
Cuz niggas slangin all my rocks
Point yo gats at me
I don’t know where uzis to yo knot
Fo fuckin wit the big shot
I was juss flat droppin g bannos on the ground
Be down
That’s one of my shit, an get shot
Only the baddest bitches jock
Get chosen
Global shouts
For bitches out there who be voguin
On the collar of poppa
Brand new hundred dolla billz, an a choppa
Where niggas strapped fo real, like Chubacca
Who got the gonga
Cuz I be high like phone doctor
Spark on vodka
Eatin lobster, bumpin Frank Sinatra
Smoke-A-Lot be the MOBBsta, who shot ya
Like Vinny Blanca
Come back in the end juss to haunt ya
Plus I twist a Benz like Big Poppa
What’s the big proper use
Go get yo bread an do what ya gots to be a
Millionaire playa
Verse 3 *(Yukmouth)*
Uh
You niggas juss created a monsta
Fuck a type, I smoke gonga
In the Bahammas
Fuckin yo baby mama
Doggystyle (whoo, wee!)
Two wow, you wow
Doubt man
Who wow «Bout it, Bout it»
Niggas be claimin they be the Ice Cream Man
But I doubt it, doubt it
Be rowdy
Hit the paper chasin clout it
Sky up out the ugly four day la-la-by yo Cuttie like a ballot
Smokin blunts, an crunchin weed, sex
Fresh outta drug rehabs
Spend two g’s at every function I be at
Believe that, BITCH!
Ya mind is Smoke-A-Lot
Grab bitches by the throat-a-lot
That’s what ya told the cops
I hold the Glock
Aim it an fire
Retire another nigga
Nameless
Game is fo hire
Desire chariots fire
Light as I’m a tuck her
We’re so called «potnaz», fuck 'em
An dust em off wit a choppa, I can’t rush 'em
Gotta bust 'em
Too skinny I can’t trust 'em
An when the mutha fuckaz got meal tickets you might have to love 'em
An that’s fo real
Nigga
Have all this fuckin money, an still ain’t happy.
Nigga, still got
Problems wit stress, mutha fuckaz juss think you got it made, they try
To rob you an shit, yo own potnaz in the hood juss wanna love you.
Fuck
Money, I wish I didn’t have it, cuz when I didn’t have it it was all
Good, niggas loved me when I was juss drinkin brew an shit at the store
Now ya got money everybody wanna kill me, nigga, ya own relatives wanna
Do you, skanless boy, this is Nine Skrillion, make a million bucks
Millionaire