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E-class I think we got a problem Yeah Big money in this bitch if you didn't knew Big business minus the business suit Even I look in the mirror like is it you And I say I must be the hottest if it isn't you Stay fresh from my top to my tennis shoes New coupe, no top, big tennis shoes Never slipped, not even on the side of a swimming pool We don't get ridiculed, We get rid of fools They said I couldn't play football I was too small They say I couldn't play basketball I wasn't tall They say I couldn't play baseball at all And now everyday of my life I ball! And they say ya' ain't raining until someone assassinate, And I feel like M-L-K Yeah, I have a dream to be your worst nightmare, And now meet the boss of the cartel (Ross!) I'm a seven-nine Satan, sitting on Lorenz's And I seem really patient, picture the equation People taking pictures and they really getting fragrant Flags down my spaceship, sergeant sniffin' for a fragrance Yeyo, Yeyo, he wanna sniff the yeyo, flying saucer on the house In the casa just to lay-low Make more (money man) that the model for the mob Need a blow-job my model, get a model for the job Go hard, no job, hustler, no prob, poster, Nigga what finger f*ck you whole squad. Forty around extendo, flipping for my kin folk Luxury tax on them packs if you didn't know Bought a new crib, niggas feeling like I hid Three point two but I just did it for the kids More guns than a pawn shop, Got my whole arm rocked. Keep the seven sexty double parked in the wrong spot Still hustling Boss! [Chorus] Yeah You gotta pay for this, I remember when I used to pray for this This, this is classic, Some shit you might not see again And we taxin', you don't want it nigga leave it then, And we taxin', you don't want it nigga leave it then And we ain't trying to see the pen, Like a needle in a hay stack we ain't trying to see the pen This is a luxury tax (I don't ask them baby I just tax 'em baby) (Let's go) Yeah imagine this, No imagine that Gave me my sack like, good luck getting back (Yeah) I'm like how the f*ck I'm gonna get outta there And if I'm not careful, Leave 'em the same place they find him there And I'm a winner if I make it cross the finish line, Putting food on the table like it's dinner time And this is what you call stereotyping by far? Can you tell me me why your dog keep sniffing my car? Huh? Got the audacity to call me a liar So what you got in your trunk? Oh, just a spare tire You niggas talked blow, While I sold mine Like a bad cramp, it's locking up in no time More time in the kitchen then I spent in the studio, Gangsters paradise and I ain't talking about Coolio Can't lie, still addicted to the odor Got a ice cold Pepsi, But still thinking Coke-Cola Ha ha ha [Chorus] I'm up early in the morning, and I'm dressed in black Hold on, every morning I get dressed in black While your half ass, nigga my pants saggin', I'm getting money, and my swaggin' and black flaggin' Million dollar status, fully automatic Heavy on the henny and even harder on the women If it wasn't for rappin', I probably would pimpin' and shit Pops, my papi, has already hear me I tried trapping, shit sent me to prison, Got mad and went to savage so homicide came to visit I smell gun powder, So you got one hour to come up with every damn dollar, Or your dun-dolla It cost a ball dog, Especially when the players on your team, Consider you as the ball hog. You treat me like Shaq, And you Kobe but I didn't say you owe me nigga But act like you know me nigga [Chorus]
Written by: WILLIAM ROBERTS, JAY JENKINS, MAURICE YOUNG, DAVID OLIVER, DWAYNE CARTER, MICHAEL GRADNEY, KEVIN CROWE, ERIK ORTIZ
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management, THE ADMINISTRATION MP INC, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
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