[Intro: Ving Rhames]
He's a hustler, unbound by law
A self-made millionaire
With a wreckless disregard for the haters
Ludacris, on "Southern Gangsta"...
A true entrepre-negro
CEO of Disturbing Tha Peace Records
He expanded his empire into multiple profitable businesses
Including his Thai food restaurant, Straits
Internet sites, WeMix.com
And my favorite, MyGhetto.com
The MVP of this rap shit

[Verse 1: Ludacris]
Luda! I'm a hustler, BALLER, gangsta, CAP PEELER
I stay strapped like your neighborhood trap dealer
I got rifles that blow ya below ya bible belt
And mac-11's that leave you wetter than Michael Phelps! (woo!)
But you'll be swimmin with the fishes
Softer than bitches washin dishes, fool what's the BUSINESS?
I'm already rich, so talk mo' figures (yup)
Spit 30 large for cigars of you ho n***as (oww!)
I got gangstas that'll rearrange ya whole face
And put your casket on ice, now that's a cold case (ha!)
Never forget where you come or that block'll bang you
I keep my ear to the STREETS like a cocker spaniel
I cock and blast you into outer space
Break every bone in ya, you so out of place
Boom without a trace, you a bluff to block
I got some red beams, let's play connect the dots!
[Interlude: Ving Rhames]
He's the biggest boss, comin outta the M-I-yayo
Straight from the "Port of Miami"
To keepin it "Trilla"
Involved in many heated acts of violence
This goes deeper than rap shit
He's worth eight figures
So young n***as, boss up
I present to you, Rick Ross, the boss

[Verse 2: Rick Ross]
I got a letter from the government, the other day
I opened and read it, it said "We were hustlers"
Had a Lexus at 18, picture that
Got a Chevy with pictures on it from pitchin crack
Bitch I know Haitians, we speakin Creole
Bitch I'm a D-boy, still slingin kilos
I got twenty cars, why exaggerate?
It cost me five grand just to fill the gas tanks
Love the marble floors, got the Greek pillars
Frontin at awards, real street n***as
I used to serve shake, now I serve steaks
Three squares on a row, call it 3rd Bass
Get the Gas Face, chopper in your laugh face
Shoot his ass, aim defense is the last case
Keep Jewish friends, the newest Benz
You in a pool of blood, let me see you swim
[Interlude: Ving Rhames]
Hailing from College Park, Georgia
Authorities figured they must have been some sort of mob
Or illegal organization
According to authorities, they made a quarter mil' a week
Selling mid-grade, they were some high-rollin hustlers
Tity Boi, and Dolla Boy
Playaz Circle, A.K.A., the Duffle Bag Boys

[Verse 3: Tity Boi & Dolla Boy]
Uhh, I'm so sick I wrote this verse in a hospital
It's an election year, I support strippers
We roll like bicycles, icicle flow
White liquor, my n***a stay on line with the blow
I'm on time with the flow, not a minute nor second late
Ain't no such thing as second place
And every day I live heavyweight, you n***as featherweight
Fairytale tellin n***as really need to take a break
And the estate got a lake for a backyard
The pool room Prada, put it all on my Saks card
For real? (Yeah, for real) I'm ill, I deal, I did, I will
I got dogs like Cujo, me and Tity 2 Chainz ridin in a two do'
Bitches catch kudos (you know)
Yeah we move weight like sumos
And kicks it with them bitches like judo
SOUTHSIDE!
[Outro: Ving Rhames]
Playaz Circle, Rick Ross, Ludacris
This has been another episode, of "Southern Gangsta"
Thanks for tunin in, what's next for Luda?
Well, anything's possible, in the Theater of the Mind