[Intro: Akon]
Hey ladies, drop it down
Just wanna see you touch the ground
Don't be shy girl, go Bananza
Shake ya body like a belly dancer
Hey ladies, drop it down
Just wanna see you touch the ground
Don't be shy girl, go Bananza
(Ayo, n***a wake up, it's nice n***a to meet again)
Shake ya body like a belly dancer

[Chorus: Kay Flock & Akon]
Oh, we tryna bend on the oppas
Bitch, I'm with 300 'jects and some Flockas
Like, who hotter? Top shottas
Hoodie'd up, dread down like a Rasta
I'm Mr. Hang-Out-The-V, tryna flock 'em, pop 'em, drop 'em (That boy— touch the ground)
If we don't got the—, we gon' hop 'em
Bory hop out wit' the, tryna chop 'em (Grrah-grrah)

[Verse: Blackedy]
I stay with it but I never show it
N***a talkin', I might have to blow it
Hop on this beat and I spit like a poet
We spin on his block, and it's murder she wrote it
Got some shooters, they aim at your neckbone
Chalkers [?], better check those
Take a spinner at his party, his head blown
Speakers so loud, you hear it in 'em headphones
Me and Flocka, we makin' it hot
Shawty get nasty, suck right at the spot
Getting money, I get that a lot
You say you gon' try me, boy you better not
They say Blackedy they lovin' that name
Steady shot when I'm holdin' my aim
Red dot in his face, you think this a game?
Me and my people really put in pain
I be geekin' like Dougie B
The fems, they know me, they take it enough for me
And shawty she suckin' me
She blowin' my phone, she lovin' me (Baow-baow-baow)
She like, "Black, you just got it like that?"
That money be stacking, I pile it like that
She goin' to [?], bought it like that
I'm knowing we got him, I'm smart like that
I hop on the beat like, "Rrah, rrah"
He tried tell me shit, but you not [?], died
Don't talk to that girl, she a ba-ba
We let off shots, ba-ba
You think it's a game? I'm not playin' with you
I hate that I'm out, I'm not stayin' with you
And knock it, my rocket, I aim it at you
And knock it, my rocket, I aim it at you
[Chorus: Kay Flock & Akon]
Oh, we tryna bend on the oppas
Bitch, I'm with 300 'jects and some Flockas
Like, who hotter? Top shottas
Hoodie'd up, dread down like a Rasta
I'm Mr. Hang-Out-The-V, tryna flock 'em, pop 'em, drop 'em (That boy— touch the ground)
If we don't got the—, we gon' hop 'em
Bory hop out wit' the—, tryna chop 'em