| Yeah, I got a feelin' nigga, really that my money be the root
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| Look up at the stars, she like, «Honey, where the roof?»
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| Pull up, hear the dogs, Canaries, they gon' woof
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| Even once had a job pourin' tar up on a roof
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| That boy had it hard, no facade, it’s the truth
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| So now when I menage and get massaged it’s the proof
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| Proof’s in the pudding and that baking soda cakin'
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| Paper that I’m makin' got her takin' photos naked
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| Listenin' to niggas like whistlin' at Wendy Williams
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| I flip my middle finger, I’m chillin' on twenty million
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| The rumors turn me on, I’m masturbatin' at the top
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| These hoes so excited, so they catchin' every drop
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| I’m dodgin' debacles like potholes in Jamaica
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| We cut down the weed, bury the paper on the 'maicas
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| Martin had a dream, Bob got high
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| I still do both but somehow I got by
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| Creflo prayed, Mike Vick paid
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| Bobby Brown straight, Whitney lost weight
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| Kimbo Slice on the pad when I write
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| That Mayweather money lookin' funny in the light
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| But who really cares? |
| We just throw it in the air
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| Celebratin' wealth, pourin' Moet in her hair
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| Excuse me, her weave, the bluest of weed
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| Trunk full of white, car smell like blue cheese
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| That boy get salad, beef bowel movements
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| BMWs on them big thangs lookin' foolish
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| Shawty sitting low, big thangs popping
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| Tip on the Glock from a Crip up in Compton
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| Shootin' at the cops, fuck one-time
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| I gave her to the block, I fucked one time
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| We Boyz N the Hood, and nigga, you lil' Tre
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| Suppress ya appetite, we takin' ya lil' tray
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| Love my handgun, but my choppa still the shit
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| Banned in 1994, but I’m «2 Legit 2 Quit»
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| 1996, kilos was the shit
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| But that was better than roofin', that shit be bad fo' ya skin
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| Niggas was ruthless, Lord knows that I sin
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| But I thought about my future and the loops I could pin
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| Walked out on the gig and I turned to the streets
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| Kept my name low-key, I ain’t heard from in weeks
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| I came up wit a strategy to come up mathematically
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| I did it for the city but now everybody mad at me
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| Motherfuck 'em all, they sweat from my balls
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| If I drop another album, I did that for my dawgs
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| Ten Maybachs everybody ridin' big
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| I just sit back like, «Look what I did»
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| Then I bow my head and beg for forgiveness
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| Once I said my prayer, everybody back to business
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| Smokin' on a blunt in my own restaurant
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| People lookin' from a distance think I’m Big Daddy Conch
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| Reincarnated, spirit of a G
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| Beef I’ll make you thinner, take a seat so we can eat
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| A Farrakhan aura, pause on the pork
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| You eat from the bowl, while your dog need a fork
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| Niggas ain’t loyal, snakes slithered in they coil
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| I’m laughin' at you cuz, kill you niggas when I’m bored (yeah!)
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| We steppin' on you crew 'til them motherfuckers crush
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| And makin' sweet love to every women that ya lust
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| I love to pay ya bills, can’t wait to pay ya rent
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| Curtis Jackson baby mama, I ain’t askin' for a cent
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| Burn the house down nigga, you gotta buy another
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| Don’t forget the gas can, jealous stupid motherfucker
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| To another chapter, paper that I captured
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| Caught up in the rapture off gunshots and laughter
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| Homicide is humor and nigga you lookin' funny
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| Women love to stare cause they know they see the money
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| I open up her mind by openin' bank accounts
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| Deposit a hundred stacks, break-up, won’t take it out
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| Baby that’s a gift, maybe you could live
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| I knew it wouldn’t work but, I just like to give
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| Used to run the street, young nigga bare feet
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| Now I’m in the suites and I’m eatin' crab meats
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| Ice so right, other rappers envy
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| They callin' all my jewelers up, askin what he spendin' (whaaat?)
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| Thinkin' 'bout Boss, not thinkin' 'bout them
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| This a letter to my enemies, one I won’t send
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| Amen |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Mafia Music , by - Rick Ross. Song from the album Deeper Than Rap, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп