[Verse 1: Young Lito]
Look, it’s the rook the vets fear
A breath of fresh air and Js from next year
Haters talk threats but see me and just stare
While I’m pushing something foreign, fast and next gear
I be bossing, convertible Porsche’ing
Thank God my momma ain’t get that abortion
Balling on these haters sometimes can be exhausting
But I’m ‘a keep stunting ‘till they put me in a coffin
Young n***a talking all greezy, jewelry all freezy
Five chains on, momma says I look cheezy
But these women love me, they tell me they’ll never leave me
I just want the money, these honeys gotta be easy
I’m living ‘Vida Loca’, riding with the toaster
Sold coca ‘cause being broke wasn’t kosher
Teacher said go to college, me, I said ‘no, sir’
I want a roadster and you drive a Toyota
I’m riding on the road to riches, flexing
I ain’t even into fitness, it’s a blessing
On everything, God’s my witness, I was stressing
But now a n***a back to business
That Lito tape

[Interlude: Troy Ave]
Man, we built this shit from the ground up
Self-made and self paid so the haters got they frowns up
Shit, as long as the bitches and the bank tellers smiling, it don’t matter
Real n***as never get involved in chitter-chatter, I’m over it
See-me-out type of n***a
And we be out on the regular
N***as couldn’t call me out if they had my cellular
Hello? Bad reception, Metro PCS ass n***as
BSB Records is the number one independent label in the streets
We’re about to run the game and you can smell defeat
Ah, that’s the smell of success, n***as
Young Lito, a.k.a. Young [Flito?]
You’re up next, I’m ‘a shoot like a free throw
[Verse 2: Young Lito]
Yo, Ave told you, Lito’s taking over
Straight from the bottom and ‘bout to bubble like soda
That’s shook-up, don’t even ask what’s up
‘Cause clearly it’s me, you motherfuckers better look up
I’m probably in a spaceship, neck full of stones on some “grave” shit
Styling on them n***as that you came with
You n***as is basic, ain’t ‘bout action, you just say shit
Till that big Mac curl you up like a wave kick
[Pakah?], n***a I ain’t a rapper
I’m a gun clapper in the field like a Packer
But this AR ain’t got a team, it’s got a beam
If you’re frontin’, I’m ‘a let it b’ring, I do my thing
Man, you haters don’t move me, n***as know I do me
Eight grade I had eightballs in my Coogi
Had all the Jordans, but a n***a wanted Gucci
So my greed ‘d turn your Pops into Pookie
Girls and the groupies, friends and the haters
Shit, I just wanted to shine like Vegas
But n***as don’t want to see you shine when their light’s dim
Them other n***as wash, man I ain’t nothing like them
It’s Lito