Song parody of


by Rick Ross

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  • English English (English)
  • French Français (French)
  • Spanish Español (Spanish)

I just left the New United States, embassy Somewhere in Georgia, it's 109 rooms I saw 30 bitches and 30 rooms and I was on the wrong side of the house Anytime me and Scott Storch get together you gotta call us the Illuminati Whenever you see the G it represents God and geometry That's what the stencil for I'mma tell you be with them Nah, I'm just fuckin' with you Aye, Scott, I'm just fuckin' with you, baby Yo Speeding in the Ghost on the phone with jewlers My new bitch out of D.C., call me Ricky the Ruler Gotta gather my concentration while counting my stacks I got eight car notes and just lost me a pack On the beach, I'm up and down, women jocking my ride 300 horses in this bitch, need a jockey inside False floors for firearms is how you should ride Tried to murder me while in mine so that's how I survived My new deal with Def Jam just set me for life Want to chapel the BM, man, I'm just rolling the dice Big numbers, I'm John Wall, I'm balling tonight Just joking, my sense of humor is like one of a kind Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind Tell me it's real Tell me this is real, baby How does it feel? How does it feel? Vici Liberace, I'm rich as a bitch Charm city boys get a whole city of brick Through the wire we wetting niggas, set the shit on fire My bitch smiling I wanna bet, now we on Fisher Isle Panamera with Tony Dribble, BK's full of paper Made a killing on Martin Luther James every shooter My niggas, we grew apart, they joined the rival gang Caught them slipping, gave them a pass throwing pistols at surviving gang Next time boss gotta turn his back on 'em Letting young boys bratt on 'em Facts, never find me with the fake look Trapping little Davis, bitch, just take me to the cakebook Black bottles, boy, that's how our case of ace look Your chick, homie, hit homie on the Facebook Damn, she hit homie on the motherfucking Facebook Tell me it's real, I wanna know How does it feel, yeah, how does it feel? Clean Maybach, but it's filthy as shit They partitioning for the women, how busy we get From the scotch, the large mop, bet the linking feel It's all a dream and never wake me up until it's real Duffle bags, that's for the homie when he coming home He never told and he never used the telephone He on swole and that nigga need a telephone In a Range Rover and a real nigga got it for him You wanna know how does it feel I know, I bet it feel so real Tell me it's real, I wanna know How does it feel, to be supreme You know when hanging with billion dollar niggas One of the perks is getting to meet all these billion dollar bitches I just met a bitch who never gets jetlag And spent 10 thousand dollars on not her best bag You underdig that

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