Lyrics Finale - Young Money

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!