| Yeah, yeah, yeah
|
| Ménage à trois with two bad bitches, they both dimes
|
| I give 'em back to the streets, they were never mine
|
| You play with me, I’ll triple cross, nigga, you ain’t my kind
|
| They wipe your ass and your nose, they the real slimes
|
| These niggas tellin', point fingers, and they throwin' signs
|
| They pump faking in they rap, all facts on mines
|
| I don’t listen to that bullshit, I don’t even have the time
|
| And I’ma always chase the paper, even if I’m blind
|
| I know big bloods that’ll smoke you like a rasta
|
| I can’t be with you, I only love my chopper
|
| This Glock-23'll cook you like some pasta
|
| And I can’t wait to shoot your ass, I don’t need no shotta
|
| I had to upgrade all my bitches, check my roster
|
| I’m tryna upgrade out the hood, take my stocks up
|
| I made it out the hood, my heart still a Block Boy
|
| And I can’t show that nigga no love, he a cop, boy |