| Through the lights, cameras, the action
|
| Glammers, glitters, and gold
|
| So much money that my paper won’t fold
|
| Shooting game at these hoes
|
| Like I’m bishop, magic, done one
|
| Out in Hong Kong, eating stuffed wontons
|
| With this dumb blonde
|
| East side, that’s where I come from
|
| Doctor Lecter, bitch
|
| I move effortless, Actavis in my beverage (bitch)
|
| I murder beats like a terrorist, get a therapist
|
| This mac’ll make a pussy nigga do a pirouette
|
| Standing on top of pyramids, watching these snakes slither quick
|
| My bitch could make her pussy toke a couple cigarettes
|
| I bet I be more than nigga rich
|
| Gun powder in my pits, kibbles and bits
|
| The champagne fizzles a bit
|
| Mister Benton, I’m invisible bitch
|
| Keep an icepick to chisel a prick
|
| She discovered my discography, she listens to Rittz
|
| I gave her a couple hits and now she’s licking my dick
|
| Yeah, smooth as a gator on a block of ice
|
| Tough guys get chop chopped with a pocket knife
|
| I’m on the grind tryna get these fucking pockets right
|
| Helicopters hover the block at night
|
| Crack head, stuck to Lucifer’s noose
|
| Another warm Saturday, I take the roof off the coupe
|
| I’m drinking again, I guess I mixed the juice and the Goose
|
| I cum in your bitch’s hair, she say she use it as mousse
|
| Watching Judge Mathis, flicking ashes on these nigga’s fabric
|
| Riding with a dime piece in a vintage Maverick
|
| I just copped a time machine, and a new Bugatti
|
| Just cause they dress like faggots, they ain’t Illuminati
|
| Bitch, yea
|
| Ya’ll pussy ass niggas sleeping on the god, man
|
| You know what I’m saying?
|
| When a nigga start goddamn shinning, do-don't act like you know me then, nigga
|
| You know what I’m saying? |
| Go put your god damn shoes in the freezer, bitch
|
| 'Cos you walking on motherfucking thin ice, nigga
|
| Jarren Benton, ya’ll niggas ain’t fucking with the kid, bitch
|
| (Yea) Let’s go
|
| A drug dealer’s dream, cup filled with lean
|
| stuffed to the seams
|
| Green, power time, all I see is dollar signs
|
| You get out of line, take you out your olive nines
|
| Fuck, ocean view in the hands
|
| Tell the bitch cook something, throw some food in the pan
|
| Then I send her home with the scent of my dick
|
| I’m a beast, I’m a dog, get the vet when I’m sick
|
| Shit, I’m too fat to fit in the Panamera
|
| Strappers lit, these rappers bitching, they ran in terror
|
| From the attic era, 'matic in the hammer bearer
|
| Smash your, rub my baby batter in like Aloe Vera
|
| Bet she told you she ain’t like fat guys
|
| 'Till I got her that high, plug like a flash drive
|
| Crushed in a cab ride, fuck, let the cash fly
|
| King shit, getting sucked, eating Pad Thai
|
| Murder for the chips again, burn 'em for the dividends
|
| Tailor made ostrich, Birkin for my women friends
|
| Uh, I got monetary obsessions, got to carry a weapon
|
| They plot on my very essence
|
| Uh, I’m from the bottom and I’m glad we are
|
| You know straight Honda Civics, no caddy cars
|
| I turned a stogey to a grand daddy 'gar
|
| And now it’s all about the xanny bars and caviar
|
| Rappers talk suspicious, like they bought some viscous
|
| Boy how you the weight man? |
| You washing dishes
|
| How many rappers really get it 'fore they get in
|
| My yellow gold Cuban make these rappers tuck they shit in
|
| Bitch |