Lyrics:
come and get with me, like
(Come get with me, nigga)
That's my muddy, we go 50 for 50 (50 for 50)
Doing hit's out of stolley's or renty
(Renty) bitch,
looking again
How many people have I shot
Many men feel like 50 cent
Everyone looking at me cause I got 50 cent
Not in my pocket though
Everyone looking, I
I had five hundred grams in fifty-fifty-eight bags
Four-hundred Benz, eight-thousand in cash.
Then the ball dropped, gun popped, banks got blast
I
out)
Cause where I come from a lot niggas don't make it out
(No they don't play around)
No they don't play around
Keep a gun shots be rangin' out
I keep
Stop whinin', this ain't Amy Winehouse
I'ma fall in it then climb out
Make you shimmy, shimmy, ya-ya-ya
Yeah, shimmy, shimmy ya, shimmy yay, come
50 Cent-
Next and 50
(Uh-huh)
Next and 50
Next and 50
Next and 50
Yo, yo my imagination is more vivid than life
Playboy November issue page
50 Cent:
I don't know what u heard about me
But a bitch can't get a dollar out of me
No Cadillac, no perms u can't see
That I'm a motherfucking
God put them in
Father Son Spirit I got plenty friends
This is not fifty cent (No) We got many men
(Yeah) Bring the lions out take them out the den
and that's a big black bug
Got your 50 cent fortune tucked under your rug
You got your zoot suit body bag ready to blast off
I'm in a milk crate by your
dope
You fin' to lose when dope
Fiends cut ya fuckin throat
You see my shit is legit, so it's on
Cut a fifty cent slab
And tell that bitch to get gone
a recorddeal
Your image is butt you perpertrating Shootin' Steel
Holdin' guns on albumcovers just to make funds
You the man quick fast payed out the ?anoass?
You
is trapped in stench
You either high school drop-outs, one to three cop-outs
Fifteen years old, shorty ass and top out
Ninety-nine cent beer
And I gotta get out dis here
Ima go cook up this work
Tell em pull up to the rear
Before they pull up
Let a fellow go prepare
And come pull up a chair
Twenties, fifties, hundreds
Gotta go and get a bag
Dior, Gucci, 'Rari, two seat
She's a movie, but means nothing to me
A-list singer and she's just
ones you don't know about
Buns by the tons, mad guns and we going out
What!!
[Swizz beatz]
It ain't over, it ain't over, ain't over
[Sonja
talking 'bout the Porsche out here
You in the nosebleeds, come down to where the cross-eyed is
How a nigga with a rojo rag end up in Soho
Bag, any bitch
cheerleader flipping now this nigga truth
Money piles have got me out on Sunny Ave
Black with me everywhere I go he'll gun you down
Full clips, magazines
While I'm surrounded by bitches with guns and sex toys
Blind love for money, head, and warm steel
Coke off the boat wrapped in banana peels
Life's so
Trailer for sale or rent
Rooms to let, fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but, two hours of pushin' broom
em' give em' shit
She gon' fuck and suck the clique
Don't know how you can't get that shit
Maxo 187 nigga
Bangers out, bitch we shooting guns
Do this
fish I prayed to the Gods
And it rained on us Lunch
Dame's wanna bang on the bus now
Beauty gave me brains till I bust
But I'm feelin way out of touch
red cent
75 Production no fear boy no care weh dem come from
Don't think the mini k malfunction
Slam one in a yuh face little gun bag
From me born me
and Dame
Niggas don’t know I stay flexin’ on ya dame
And that bitch gave me the ass
She gave me the brain
Until 50 cent run up and take your chain
He ain’t
Nights like this... I wish.
Rain drops would fall
5 heartbeats left
One last deep breath.
[50Cent:]
I got a 16 shot Rugger, I got 16 cars
All over
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