Who y'all talkin' to, man?
Uhh, check it out, check it out
This, here, goes out to all the n*ggas
That be f*ckin' mad b*tches
In other n*ggas cribs
Thinkin' sh*t is sweet
n*gga creep up on your ass, hahaha
Live n*ggas respect it—check it
I kick flows for ya, kick down doors for ya
Even left all my motherf*ckin' hoes for ya
n*ggas think Frankie pus*y-whipped, n*gga, picture that
With a Kodak, Insta-ma-tac
We don't get down like that, lay my game down quite flat
Sweetness, where you parked at?
Petiteness but that ass fat
She got a body make a n*gga wanna eat that, I'm f*ckin' with you
The b*tch official, doe, di*k harder than a missile, yo
Try to hit, if she trippin', disappearin' like Arsenio
Yo, the b*tch push a double-oh
With the five in front, probably a connivin' stunt
Y'all drive in front, I'm a peel with her
Find the deal with her, she f*ck around and steal, huh?
Then we all get laced
Television's, Versace heaven, when I'm up in 'em
The sh*t she kicked, all the sh*t's legit
She get di*k from a player off the New York Knicks
n*gga tricked ridiculous, the sh*t was plush
She's stressin' me to f*ck, like she was in a rush
We f*cked in his bed, quite dangerous
I'm in his ass while he playin' 'gainst the Utah Jazz
My 112, CD blast, I was past
She came twice, I came last, roll the grass
She giggle, sayin' "I'm smokin' on home-grown"
Then I heard the moan, "Honey, I'm home!"
Yep, tote chrome for situations like this
I'm up in his broad, I know he won't like this
Now I'm like, "b*tch, you better talk to him
Before this fifth put a spark to him
f*ck around, sh*t get dark to him, put a part through him
Lose a major part to him, arm, leg."
She beggin' me to stop but this cat gettin' closer
Gettin' hot like a toaster, I c*cks the toast, uhh
Before my eyes could blink
She screams out, "Honey, bring me up somethin' to drink!"
He go back downstairs, more time to think
Her brain racin, she's tellin' me to stay patient
She don't know I'm cool as a fan
Gat in hand, I don't wanna blast her man
But I can and I will though, I'm tryna chill though
Even though situation lookin' kinda ill, yo
It came to me like a song I wrote
Told the b*tch, "Gimme your scarf, pillowcase and rope"
Got dressed quick, tied the scarf around my face
Roped the b*tch up, gagged her mouth with the pillowcase
Play the cut, n*gga comin' off some Love Potion sh*t
Flash the heat on 'em, he stood emotionless
Dropped the glass screamin, "Don't blast, here's the stash!
A hundred cash! Just don't shoot my ass, please!"
n*gga pullin' mad Gs out the floor
Put stacks in a Prada knapsack, hit the door
Grab the keys to the five, call my n*ggas on the cell
"Bring some weed, I got a story to tell", uhh...
Yo man, y'all n*ggas ain't gonna believe what the f*ck happened to me. Remember that b*tch I left the club with man? Yo, freaky yo. I'm up in this b*tch playa this b*tch f*ckin' run them ol' Knick ass n*ggas and sh*t. I'm up in the spot though. One of them six-five n*ggas, I don't know. Anyway I'm up in the motherf*ckin' spot. So boom I'm up in the pus*y, whatever whatever. I sparks up some lah, Pop Duke creeps up in on some, must have been rained out or something because he's in the spot. Had me scared, had me scared, I was shook, Daddy—but I forget I had my Roscoe on me. Always. You know how we do. So anyway the n*gga comes up the stairs, he creepin' up the steps, the b*tch all shook she sends the n*gga back downstairs to get some drinks and sh*t. She gettin' mad nervous, I said f*ck that man! I'm the n*gga, you know how we do it, n*gga, ransom note style put the scarf around my motherf*ckin' face. Gagged that b*tch up, played the kizzack. Soon this n*gga comes up in the spot, flash the Desert in his face he drops the glass. Looked like the n*gga p*ssed on his-self or somethin, word to mother! Ahh f*ck it. This n*gga runs dead to the floor, peels up the carpet, start givin' me mad papers, mad papers. (I told you that b*tch was a shiesty b*tch cuz! Word to mother I used to f*ck her cousin' but you ain't know that! You wouldn't know that sh*t. Really though.) I threw all that motherf*ckin' money up in the Prada knapsack. Two words, I'm gone! (No doubt, no doubt... no doubt!) Yo n*gga got some lye, y'all got some lye? [conversation fades out]
[Produced by Buckwild and Chucky Thompson]