Lyrics:
leaves I've been in the industry, since nine-three My so-called dogs, haven't paid me no royalties Lord please, SouthSide G's from fo's
paper, I'm on the MTV news I'm havin slugs fo shistey niggas, tryin' ta give me the blues I ain't a mutha fuckin' Italian But my crew run like the Mafia
to life like Brandon Lee, Hit the corner, wit a four-four loner, On a one way trip off that water, Run fo yo life, the mic rock hard I'm fuckin wit no
working the night shift Trying to make a million fo' 22 what I'm trying to do Little eager too to do what the fuck I gotta do Flip optimal like
'Cause we were far, from reality Some thought we were blunted when we wrote this 'Cause we were far, from reality Fo'-to-the-fo'-to-the-fi-fe-come I
when it's my time to go, I wait for God wit the fo-fo And biters can't come near And yo, go to hell to the foul cop who shot Garcia I won't plant
Memories on the corners with the Fo's and the Mo's Walk to the store for the Rose, talking straightforward to hoes Got uncles that smoke, and some
a filo filo Omo jeka fo no go dey ghost, oh Eru to gbe wo ten kilo kilo Ko ma tingasa ko ma tingasa (e goal) Chinasa eyan falapa I got her from Osapa
fo' sho' my go Make hella doe like blow but it Must be that vodka that's making me hot as fuck Look at me I'm sweating like I hit a sherm stick
a white cup This ain't nothin' but a fo' (fo') I'm not tryna take your life I'm tryna take you out of space, movin' slow She give me head like a comb I
Djama ! Nè kodo fô m'badénouw yé. Sé tigui yé Ala yé. Sé tigui yé Ala yé. Djama ! Nè kodo fô m'badénouw yé. Sé tigui yé Ala yé. Sé tigui yé
Miami all day But if my Cubans get to stay, why y'all turn my Haitians away? Immigration knockin at my do' I don't know what they knockin fo' It's so
Feel like I'm up in the sky, yo all know that bay green Forty got them going [?] when we pull up on the scene Candy paint, looking clean, fo's looking
to keep a secret, You can get it fo' sure Just make sure you get enough 'Cause you can get it no more Come and ride wit cha boy (Big Sam) then fill
fly, we high, and the shit we on nigga fo' life till we die Till we die, came from the bottom to sing for the sky If it's mother fuck the world, put
Coleco I get you hot if you're, lookin through the peephole Niggas start duckin out, like I work for repo' Fo'-fo' italian chrome, bitches yellin,
the peephole Niggaz start duckin out, like I work for repo' Fo'-fo' italian chrome, bitches yellin, "Champagne!" I stick the whole Mo' bottle up inside
BC-4, straight out of low cash Low cash, low cash, W K Y A, Low cash, yeah The new Brick City, low down, gritty Fo' pound semi, minds I leave 'em empty
behind on my mortgage, house under fo'closure Momma ain't feelin too good, she diabetic Scared of needles hospitals ambulance paramedics And I'm
Around fo' that fo' do' Phantom at your front door We can take it for a ride Kick it and conversate Debate or disfate Diner reservations at eight
As my, Daytons spin, lowrider sittin low Hittin corners so hard you can taste my rims Rag top six-fo', Henny in the passenger side Smokin chronic
like LeBron James The chrome fo'-fo' pretty like Ricky Fontaine My gorillas kill a man We thicker than That wic check peanut butter that come in that big
flow We pullin' da fo'-fo' Hang out the sunroof and I'm yellin' out "YO! What happened to my weed and what happened to my dough?" My motion real slow
Guess who's back on the West coast tracks It's the motherfucking messiah of gangsta rap Still dip in the six-fo', still puffin on the same chronic Haters
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