Bangladesh
Young Money!
You dig?
Mack, I’m going in
A millionaire, I’m a Young Money millionaire
Tougher than Nigerian hair
My criteria compared to your career just isn’t fair
I’m a venereal disease, like a menstrual bleed
Through the pencil, and leak on the sheet of the tablet in my mind
‘Cause I don’t write sh#t, ‘cause I ain’t got time
‘Cause my seconds, minutes, hours go to the almighty dollar
And the almighty power of that ch-cha-cha-chopper
Sister, brother, son, daughter, father; mother-f#ck a copper
Got the Maserati dancin’ on the bridge, p#ss# poppin’
Tell the coppers: “Ha-ha-ha-ha
You can’t catch him, you can’t stop him”
I go by them goon rules: if you can’t beat ’em, then you pop ’em
You can’t man ’em, then you mop ’em
You can’t stand ’em, then you drop ’em
You pop ’em ‘cause we pop ’em like Orville Redenbacher
m#th*rf#ck*r, I’m ill
A million here, a million there
Sicilian b#tch with long hair, with coke in her derriere
Like smoking the thinnest air
I open the Lamborghini, hopin’ them crackers see me
Like, “Look at that b#stard Weezy!”
He’s a beast, he’s a dog, he’s a mothaf#ckin’ problem
Okay, you’re a goon, but what’s a goon to a goblin?
Nothin’, nothin’, you ain’t scarin’ nothin’
On some faggot b#llsh#t: call ’em Dennis Rodman
Call me what you want, b#tch! Call me on my Sidekick!
Never answer when it’s private, damn, I hate a shy b#tch
Don’t you hate a shy b#tch? Yeah, I ate a shy b#tch
She ain’t shy no more, she changed her name to My b#tch
Yeah, n#gg#, that’s my b#tch, so when she ask
For the money when you through, don’t be surprised, b#tch!
And it ain’t trickin’ if you got it
But you like a b#tch with no #ss: You ain’t got sh#t
m#th*rf#ck*r, I’m ill, not sick
And I’m okay, but my watch sick, yeah, my drop sick
Yeah, my Glock sick, and my knot thick — I’m it
m#th*rf#ck*r, I’m ill
See, they say I’m rappin’ like B.I.G., Jay, and 2Pac
André 3000, where is Erykah Badu at? Who that?
My name ain’t Bic, but I keep that flame, man
Who that one that do that, boy?
You knew that true that, swallow
And I be the sh#t, now you got loose bowels
I don’t owe you like two vowels
But I would like for you to pay me by the hour
And I’d rather be pushin’ flowers
Than to be in the pen sharin’ showers
Tony told us this world was ours
And the Bible told us every girl was sour
Don’t play in her garden and don’t smell her flower
Call me Mr. Carter or Mr. Lawn Mower
Boy, I got so many b#tches, like I’m Mike Lowrey
Even Gwen Stefani said she couldn’t doubt me
m#th*rf#ck*r, I say “Life ain’t sh#t without me”
Chrome lips pokin’ out the coupe, look like it’s poutin’
I do what I do, and you do what you can do about it
b#tch, I can turn a crack rock into a mountain — dare me
Don’t you compare me, ‘cause there ain’t nobody near me
They don’t see me but they hear me
They don’t feel me but they fear me
I’m illy, C3, 3 Peat
Find more lyrics at westlyrics.com
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