[Intro: The Notorious B.I.G. sample + (DJ Whoo Kid)]
{*gunshot*}
{*gunshot*}
One, one, two
(Non-stop)
Yo, check me out right here yo

[Verse 1: 50 Cent]
Yo, yo we can't stay alive forever
So if shit hit the fan then we might as well die together
I'm high as ever, more holes and more cheddar
G-Unit move around with them pounds and Berettas
Yea faggot, if I want it I'm gon' have it
Regardless if it's handed to me or I gotta grab it
Don't make a ass outta yaself tryin' to stop me
I'm cocky, raps rocky, n***a you sloppy
You know that I'm, 8 levels above you, n***a
I'll club you n***a, I never heard of you, n***a, ugly n***a
I'm the wrong one to provoke
You rattin' on n***as is only gon' leave you smoke
So the only thing left now is tools for these cowards
I got no friends, fuck most of these cowards
They pop shit 'till we start approaching these cowards
While we lay around dollars, they lay around flowers

[Verse 2: Lloyd Banks]
I got a industry gangstress, that argues, and steams the reefer
And flip when I call her bitch, like she Queen Latifah
Not all the vehicle's is long enough to stash the street sweeper
This shit can get uglier than the Master P sneaker
We slidin through the ruckus, with Prada on the chuckus
So the spring break hoes home from college wanna fuck us
I ain't here to drop knowledge on you suckas
I sic Rottweilers on you fuckas, cops followin' to cuff us
Top dollars to discuss this, whole lot of zeros
When it comes to paper, I blow a soul out a hero
I'ma break before I lay floor buried
Besides, every rapper ain't a star, and every plad ain't Burberry
You can't tame Lloyd, smokin' by the big screen
Changin' the channel, looks like I'm playin' the Game Boy
I know the watch botherin' ya vision
But reach, and I'll put a dot on ya head like it's part of your religion
Why party with a pigeon?
I'm blowin' a 10 cause Bush handin' flyers for a party in a prison
I'm in the Gucci vest, with the green and red straps
I'm the last rapper to scare n***as since Craig Mack
Now every morning's a fast start
And there ain't problem gettin' dressed 'cause my closet got more aisles than Pathmark
Run, move startin' a wave
Or leave with 12 shells in ya mouth like a carton of eggs
I'm the young pimp pardon my age
I don't got long hair but if I did she be partin' my braids
N***as find what club they at
Take 'em with us, and run a train on 'em like a subway map
Your advance is grey Acura
See these record labels got most artists gettin' fucked like the gay rapper
I go to college on the tour
I'm goin' down in history n***a, next to Wallace and Shakur
I keep ya ammo clean, text polished in the drawer
Camera's by the hamper that mine into the floor
By now, you probably heard of me
Fresh outta surgery, flashy as a fuck, you gon' have to murder me
Burglary, I'm leavin' with your Nikes burgundy, white tee: burgundy
You match now, back down
N***as love to hate you, but love you when you disappear
Catch me on the boat with weed smoke and fishin' gear
Heavy when I toke, C-notes from different years
Bezzy and the rope, remotes and liftin chairs
You ain't rich, but we glad to snatch ya
I send cars to your crib like I'm a cab dispatcher
You better off with the stupid guys, lookin' for a coupe to drive
You ain't gettin nuttin' but ya french fries supersized
It's a damn shame y'all still local
I'm in a million dollar studio layin my vocals, n***a
[Outro: 50 Cent]
Still in the projects n***a, you ain't goin' nowhere
You gon' fuckin' be there for the rest of your muthafuckin' life
And your momma sayin': I'm supposed to tell you somethin'
To encourage you, somethin' positive, aight:
Well, I ain't gon' lie to you muthafucka, he ain't goin' nowhere
Get yourself a beer, and get on the fuckin' curb {*gunshot*}
You fuckin' dirt bag {*gunshot*}