Lyrics:
on my wrist
Gelato smoke it up
I'm chiefing hella big
If she gon bruk it up
I might just grant her wish
2 cups (drank) put it out
Smoking gas by
I dig Modigliani (1)
Jolson doin' "Swanee (2) "
Several maharanee (3) are my intimates, too
I played with Montovani (4)
That's a lot of string to get
Don't let people try to tell you how your story should be written
I'm doin' my own thing I'm not in that crowd
I may be an outsider That is fine
Cuz I
gonna let me in. Let me nurture this
Got another thing coming if you think I'm 'bouta fold
I'm on the road, go
My mission statement stays in all caps with
Easy if you keep fucking around like that you're going to get your ass shot
No fuck that
The only thing more potent than my rhymes
Is the shit that
[Verse 1: Athian]
I spent 50 11 hours everyday on a mixtape
Say what's on my chest give a fuck what a bitch say
Tell it like it call it how I see it
and at least half your homies
We at the top
Don't crack
I've been doing my own thing (I've been doin' it baby)
And they said don't never change (that's
Many strange things happen in a studio while the mic is live
Yo, yo, yo, yo, get crackin'
It's the one an' only Buc-mutha-fuckin' Fifty
Up
yeah, we got 49 of 50, lookin' at the difference
I don't think that you can score
Yeah, I been drivin' in my city, town that's full of pity, drugs, love,
hope
What I needed was a "Creed" to live by, but my back was up against the rope
Things were getting kinda "Rocky", try to stop me "ASAP" cuz I'm "Dope"
grounds
Wit the Shits
Just know I'm down
Reasons my niggas keep me round
Fifty cents you want a brown
I'm cool on any side of town
Screaming free my niggas
a black Bimmer
But my dream's to own a fly casino
Like Bugsy Siegel, and do it all legal
And get scooped up by the little homie in the Regal, uh
It
a black Bimmer
But my dream's to own a fly casino
Like Bugsy Siegel, and do it all legal
And get scooped up by the little homie in the Regal, uh
It
the water I need to meet with Phelps. (Ha!)
Got my own corner! (Corner!)
I don't need your help. (nah!)
I'm doin' everything like I only need myself.
me
Can't stand a groupie, cause a groupie's purpose is usually to use me
They usually hop on the next dick, when they see 50 Cent or Juve
Who he
wanna get fronted
Okay leave your mama address
And her phone number
Shut the spot down, switch it up
We been doin' numbers
Cussed my bitch out then lost
(Chorus)
In life you play along
You are not alone
I’ve been on my own
Loved ones are gone
My scars don’t heal nomore
Caused by people I know
Pain
state's forty cents
in New York City fifty cents elsewhere
It makes no goddamn sense at all
America's oldest continuously published daily piece of bullshit
Lyrically, I'm drivin' drunk how I'm swervin'
In and out of genres, I ain't pop or urban
I'm my own category, you can
Call that shit purpose, listen
I need
People ask me where I been, I been writin' new hits
Had to make my own plans, I don't need your two-cents, ay
Yeah, I don't wanna hear excuses
I just
of asahd
Whoever on my side
Stick by me
Honestly support that I'm getting overwhelming
Honestly the girl to my dreams I ain't slipping
I be in the kitchen
Wavin' on edges of roadsides
Don't worry 'bout me, I'll be alright
Still doin' my thing as the cars fly by
All night, that's right
I'll get where I'm
got it (whats wrong with you?)
50k cash, I got it (i got it)
Two-hundred on my dash, I got it (i got it, bitch)
The game on smash, I got it
My hoes
Sellin mixtapes to them albums from 30 to 50 thousand (wow)
It ain't no problem, I got it, my following got me (got me)
Long as I continue to spit poems
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