Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Finale, artist - Young Money. Album song We Are Young Money, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 31.12.2008
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Cash Money
Song language: English
Finale |
| What it do, nigga |
| This your nigga T-Streets |
| Bang-bang in the building |
| This Young Money |
| First up, my nigga Gudda Gudda |
| Double G, blap, blap |
| They call me Young Gudda, I’m all about the dough still |
| And anybody in my way: roadkill |
| Everything my hands touch turn to gold |
| Money, knots, and jewels with no records sold, yeah |
| I’m manhandlin' rappers with no effort |
| So imagine what’ll happen when I start applyin' pressure |
| Guillotine flow, who ready to get severed, nigga? |
| In or out the booth, you could get leveled, nigga |
| Now we gonna take it to Harlem, Millzy |
| L’eggo! |
| Yo, we are Young Money (Yes) |
| Nigga, your camp chocha |
| It’s ‘bout to get real ugly—Omarosa |
| YM vultures, it ain’t a family doper |
| We done changed the way the game look—Sammy Sosa (Ha!) |
| This is life, this ain’t a job |
| The Audemars and Chapard just symbolize I go hard |
| Navy on Navy Camaro, I did it all for the Yankees (L'eggo) |
| Did it all for New York and this love, no need to thank me |
| Millz! |
| Now we gonna take to the West Coast |
| Tyga-Tyga |
| Ugh, fast money, I don’t slow dance |
| Young Money, motherfucker, 'til the world end |
| Money overweight, bitch—Roseanne |
| I don’t listen to these kids—grown man |
| Skinny nigga, dope though, ugh, Lohan |
| Lindsey, the white Benz, same color Mike skin |
| Make your soul spin when the ping loading |
| Au revoir, goodbye, now applaud |
| Yeah, now it’s child’s play, nigga |
| My lil' G, Lil' Chuckee |
| Young Money lil' G, battle juice in my blood |
| Jumpin' at the boy, man, you better have your bungee cord |
| Since Wayne took me off the leash, I ain’t lose a fight yet |
| Now, come drag your dog out the ring, how you love that? |
| Young with an attitude, watch how you talk to me |
| Keep playin' Freddy, boy, I’ll leak on your Elm Street |
| Trouble is what you want, dog, pain is what you don’t get |
| It’s Young Money to the bone gristle, you dig? |
| Now we got the hottest nigga on the internet |
| Lil' Twist Hefner, what it do? |
| Ugh! |
| Young Money, good night |
| And yeah, I’m gon' shine like a ultraviolet light |
| Lil' Twist gonna sell out like it’s opening tonight |
| Going for the fist nigga to write |
| You need a telescope sight to try to see me, I’m so far gone |
| Even though I’m going off, kids, I’m so far on |
| I got a house full of chicks like the Playboy home |
| Wrappin' up my lifestyle and I smashed this song, Twizzy |
| Yeah, next up, we got the best rapstress alive, Nicki Minaj |
| I’m in that cotton-pickin' Bent, put massa on the guts |
| White on white whips, Kunta Kinte on the clutch |
| You at the bottom of the pole—totem |
| Like Lamar Odom, I ball—scrotum |
| Flyer than a cricket so they call me «Nicki Jiminy» |
| And it’s going down like Santa in the chim-i-ney |
| You don’t ball, break your baby-back ribs |
| You need more assist than the handicapped kids |
| Oh, shit |
| And now, the beautiful Miss Shanell |
| Young Money, we’re rockstars |
| So fuck with your Magnum on |
| And hold on, we go long |
| You feel that, we get that |
| We in that, we run that |
| We bust back |
| We hit them and we see them comin' back for more |
| Back for more |
| Next up, my nigga Mack Maine |
| Stupid Mack-nupid, one hundred |
| Microwave family in the building, you can’t hold us |
| Me, Tez, and Wayne, we the three new moguls |
| Buffet around here, y’all boys scrape the plates |
| And we don’t eat up in our whips, but they got paper plates |
| Soon as we leave the club, damn, where the models go |
| One word I forgot to say on his album: «Hollygrove!» |
| This track is the finale, nah, this the genesis |
| Young Money murderers, we killin' shit, forever |
| Toronto |
| Drizzy |
| Get ‘em |
| Alright, I got this, you can never get this |
| I built it up from nothing, you would think I’m playin' Tetris |
| Thousand-dollar sweater on, but I don’t never sweat shit |
| Swear the beats they give me got a motherfuckin' death wish |
| Yeah, tell me, who controls kings? |
| I don’t follow rules, stupid old things |
| I’m flyin' through the city in a coupe with those wings |
| And my team deserves some motherfuckin' Super Bowl rings |
| Young Money |
| Wee-zy! |
| Wee-zy! |
| Wee-zy! |
| Wee-zy! |
| I’m so in this bitch, CEO in this bitch |
| Lil Weezy stand tall, tippy-toe in this bitch |
| Blood Gang, motherfucker, da-da-doe in this bitch |
| Make your girl get Barry Mani-low in this bitch |
| In the body of the world, money is the blood |
| And every day, I be back and forward to the blood bank |
| Ugh, makin' deposits 'til I fucking faint |
| New Orleans, nigga: How 'bout them fucking Saints? |
| It’s tight on our end, call that «Bubba Franks» |
| Matter-fact, it’s too tight—add a couple links |
| I’m the bar’s tender, you a woman drink |
| Yeah, it’s Young Money, but the money ain’t |
| Gudda tough, 'Nelly nice, Nick' nasty |
| Streets bad, Tyga ill, Drake magic |
| Millz Harlem, Chuck wild, Twist Dallas |
| And Mack Maine rap, sing and manage, ugh! |
| It’s Young Mula, baby! |