[Intro: 50 Cent, (The Notorious B.I.G.), [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 hoes and more cheddar
G-Unit move around with them pounds and Berettas
Yeah 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 out of yourself trying to stop me
I'm cocky, rap's Rocky, n***a you sloppy
You know that I'm, eight 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 ratting on n***as is only going to leave you smoked
So the only thing left now, is toasts 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
Now all the vehicles is long enough to stash the street sweeper
This shit can get uglier than the Master P sneaker
I'm sliding through the Rucker, with Prada on the chuckers
So the spring break hoes home from college wanna fuck us
I ain't here to drop knowledge on you suckers
I sic Rottweilers on you fuckers, cops following to cuff us
Top dollars to discuss this, whole lot of zeros
When it comes to paper, I blow the soul out a hero
I'ma break before I lay in the floor buried, besides
Every rapper ain't a star, and every plaid ain't Burberry
You can't tame Lloyd, we're smoking by the big screen
Changing the channel, looks like I'm playing the Game Boy
I know the watch bothering your vision
But reach, and I put a dot on your head
Like it's part of your religion
Why party with a pigeon? I'm blowing a ten
Because Bush handing out flyers, for a party in the 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
But it ain't a problem getting dressed
'Cause my closet got more aisles than Pathmark
Run when we starting a raid
Or leave with twelve shells in your mouth, like a carton of eggs
I'm a young pimp, pardon my age
I don't got long hair, but if I did she'd be parting my braids
N***as find out what club they at, take them with us
And run a trains on 'em, like a subway map
Your advance is a grey Acura; see these record labels
Got most artists getting fucked like the gay rapper
I go to college on the tour
I'm going down in history n***a, next to Wallace and Shakur
Keep your ammo clean, TECs polished in the drawer
Camera's by the hampers that monitor the floor
By now, you probably heard of me, fresh out of surgery
Flashy as a fuck, you gon' have to murder me
Burglary, I'm leaving 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 a boat, with weed smoke and fishing gear
Heavy when I tote, C-notes from different years
Bezzy and the rope, remotes and lifting 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, looking for a coupe to drive
You ain't getting nutting, but you 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]
You still in the projects n***a, you ain't going nowhere
You going to be there for the rest of your motherfucking life
And your mama saying: I'm supposed to tell you something, to encourage you
Something positive, alright:
Well, I ain't going to lie to you motherfucker;
You ain't going nowhere
Get yourself a beer, and get on the fucking curb {*gunshot*}
Fucking dirtbag {*gunshot*}