| Uh huh, Uh huh, Brooklyn Vietnam | 
| What you, Uh yeah, Uh, Come on | 
| Oh no, big Shyne Po | 
| Back up in the motherfuckin heezy for sheezy | 
| Gimme a tech that don’t jam (bang bang) | 
| I’m tryin to jucks some more grams and work this whole thing | 
| My minds poisoned, corrupted and diseased | 
| 360 ki’s | 
| Money make the world spin | 
| I make your chest smoke | 
| Have your mother singing hymms | 
| Particles of your brains up on your tims | 
| Kiss you before I twist you | 
| 170 miles | 
| Headed for disaster faster | 
| I put it down right | 
| Bustin off these rounds like | 
| Real niggas is kings | 
| You ain’t rockin' that crown right | 
| Harder more PK watches | 
| Topless, bitches in cars | 
| Only meals could heal my scars | 
| Niggas wanna rhyme like shine like me | 
| They supposed to | 
| Niggas wanna bust their guns like me | 
| They supposed to | 
| Niggas wanna grind like crime like me | 
| They supposed to | 
| Niggas wanna mash like me, dash like me | 
| Allegations got me pacin' | 
| Grand jury wouldn’t understand my fury | 
| For fast cars and jewelry | 
| I could give a fuck if there’s a heaven for a G | 
| This is heaven for me | 
| Go to trial never plea | 
| Do a bullet and come home to the throne | 
| I don’t rhyme, I just talk about this life that’s mine | 
| I’ve seen niggas die, in front of my eyes | 
| Doin' my filth | 
| Niggas is expiring like milk | 
| Different strokes for different folks | 
| Just give me, different coke in different boats | 
| Black Aristotle Onassis | 
| All I see is crack addicts and automatics | 
| You rap niggas is faggots | 
| Y’all cannot be serious | 
| I’m in coupes with gucci interiors | 
| Airin' out your areas | 
| Tech nines, two in the flex and shit | 
| Lookin' at myself like | 
| Yo, I’m the best in this | 
| Sometimes I really wonder | 
| What’s it all about? | 
| How many bitches can I fuck until I get out | 
| How many ki’s can I cut, guns can I bust | 
| Wigs can I push, spots can I juck | 
| Every single one, cuz I’m a fuckin' savage | 
| Til I’m cremated, most hated, self made | 
| Blood type G | 
| All these young hustlers wanna bubble like me | 
| They supposed to | 
| Sippin on syrup, until I perish | 
| Pickin' bitches off the run-way | 
| Look forward to, gun-play | 
| Go to sleep with one eye shut | 
| Wake up and do the same shit | 
| I ain’t never gonna change bitch | 
| And that’s the cycle | 
| I don’t wanna be like Michael | 
| More like Darrell Porter | 
| Gettin' shipments at the border | 
| Yeah, it’s a wrappity wrap |