' cash would do playahatas come after you if they blast at you i'd be the first one to prove what the mass would do one ain't better than havin' two
havin' cash would do Playahatas come after you, if they blast at you I'd be the first one to prove what the mass would do One ain't better than havin
's girl is goin' get f-cked tonight (Tonight) See I just grab her arm, Hey pretty girl, no need to be alarmed, no Cause I just wanna make you feel good, better than
be a trophy on no L.A. desk Some niggas walk up tossing LA. sets I guess, this supposed to be some type of L.A. test Better watch the girls with the
bustin million dollar raps and six digit checks Showin love to my peeps and my love don't change Here's a toast to you fakes, huh, here's to better days
's another story For surely your pussy on toast, after we toast Our clothes fell like bishop and juice The womb beater, clean pussy eater, inserting my john In that spot hotter than
stock in Hearin that shit that you droppin, but it was not that nice Both hands is broken, you can't write, better hire a ghost Spitta got money to burn, turn bread to toast
'll surely clap if I ask em Whip a nigga out his clothes from Freret to Jackson Nobody'll ever wonder or talk about what happened C'mon Son Who Better than
your whole staff pressurized Melt down all of your artificial lies Y'all niggaz is faker than Yellow No. 5 Swine like mono and diglyceride My vocals got texture, you just texturized I'm nicer than
's beams on every burner These lasers, a petition wouldn't help What good is having shooters if they the type that miss? Where I'm from, better be careful
was you I'd leave it alone I kill you or suicide you You had a choice before they flew inside you The best rapper alive, you better ask around I got coke
this shit, muh'fucker Had to throw everybody out the motherfucking room 'Cause they don't fucking I'd like to propose a toast I said toast motherfucker
yall been tounge wrestlerling to long Aye whatchu wanna do homes? I'm finna pull this heat and have you fetal like a new-born T.I.P., Mike, and Bun B - scared whatchu better
word to mother, I'm above ya And I love ya 'cause you're a sweet bitch A crazy crab, you might make my dick itch I flow looser than Luther, words ya
part through him Lose a major part to him, arm, leg She beggin' me to stop but this cat gettin' closer Gettin' hot like a toaster, I cocks the toast,
-two, or whatever the tech holes My dirty crew rather hawk you to death rather than talk you to death 'Cause listenin' is like livin' when yo' talkin' is death So y'all better
T.B., and Johnny Handsome I hand none niggaz no credit, you see I'm iller than most I'm kinda illy with the hands, but I'm iller with toast My guns go
is death I keep the P 89 twenty shot in the coat Better squeeze soon as you see me, you plottin' to loc I'm a little more than itchy, motherfucker When