Lyrics:
on my paws, and my jaw gone glizzo
Thoughts as I’m pulling up to yo cribbo
Sucking on her nipple, she know a nigga a sicko
Kissing on her lips, and I kiss
that water with me
right after Mr.Martin's class (??)and me
straight to Barret think I was worried bout the trulency? please
got paid for them old
See he's a gangster, I'm a hustler
Yo it's either thank ya, or it's f*** ya
[Ice Cube + (Lil Jon)]
I'm down with Lil Jon ain't got to pretend
So what the fuck gotta say
Fuck Mr. Clynch coming' straight from the playground
Lil whore got it bad cause I'm brown
And not the other color so Chase
spending all your cake on them bitches
I need the bread lil' niggas need Christmas
Banks don't rap with a back pack
I'm in it for the money the money
get a chance I'ma bust ya
No matter where, you could be in Russia I'ma touch ya
(Like that) Vocal assassin, motivated by cash
Shoot for the loot,
dont get moved by the tools
battle wounds on ya shoes wait
control ya hate
u aint ridin in dem 6s
(WHY?)cause u spendin all ya CAKE on dem bitches
I need
where, you could be in Russia I'ma touch ya
Vocal assassin, motivated by cash
Shoot for the loot, brownies and black mags
Don't stop, keep goin' don't
Mr. Rosenberg
No, I ain't no fuckin' dummy
Bitch, I'm Mr. Rosenberg
Mr. Rosenberg
Call me Mr. Rosenberg
Made fun of my last name 'til the cash came, Mr
Lil Wayne:
Yeah (take me out, take me out)
ok now it was me and Mrs. C
we was chillin by ourself
both of us just popped a pill
and now am feelin'
and Smif-N-Wessun
Pick up the pace 'cause we're right behind ya black
The punk got X-amount of shots, take one to your back
BOO-YAA-KAA!!! Mr. Ripper did
up
Had to disappear for a while
Shit got a lil' hot
Guess who’s back on the block
Mr big Stuff laid back in the cut
One hand on the burner one hand
Hopin' that it don't get shut
By these police makin' raids on those of us who know what's up
My lil' uzi weighs a ton, man, I truly ain't the one
My
Stick
Kieth probably got killed by a childhood friend
God bless his soul
I hope his killer got hit
I was
Riding on the north
Hot boxing my whip
Fucked
six-one blockin' it
If y'all ridin' by, my nigga, we cockin' it
Poppin' on imposters, fake ass mobsters
East side niggas, ain't no stoppin' us
My recipe
featuring Blake see Jay Z Mr. Bristal
[Blake C]
What you sayin'?
Roc A Fella (uh huh)
Gener al (uh huh)
B.I.G. (right on)
to tha West
Well, Lyssa Brisna, in San Francisca
The cute lil sista, with the fever blista
Said that I dissed her, 'cause I wouldn't kiss her
But I got
by the pack might throw a pair or two
HD body so I sit back and stare at you
Movin' now, movin' now, lil mama movin' now
Bring the ladies to the front
Yeah, we back
Back in Muhammad crib, nigga, top floor
The back room with just the one little small window, nigga
The light be comin' through it in
lives are took
I can't see no difference from Mr. Hussein to Mr. Bush
Death and deception it's the brew the devil cooks
Dear Mr. President you had
Daz we about to fry niggas like fries
And separate them by five's and light up the skies
Crip that D P, Kurupt
Dippin' and I'm out, put a dick in
out
Maybe I should go out and put rims and all kinds of goofy shit on my truck
We are all sickos inside
Anyway, every single one of us
Im going up like
Ooh I like that
Bom bom bom bom
Yea
right
Ha
Right
Oh we got take you higher on this one baby Oh yea
Gotta go sicko mode not Travis Scott but I feel
triple the size of the eiffel tower
Get my self r eight foreign
Skirt into am hours
I get boat loads by the drive by
Coming slowmo she don't know me
Got
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