Lloyd Banks Lyrics
Gettin Money Lyrics
[20 seconds instrumental]
I'm tired of niggas thinkin' they Sylvester - but now you prob'ly thinkin' wich one
Shit, Rambo, Rocky pick one! (Oooh!)
I'm in the seven star telly
And the roomkey come with a butler if you bring it, you gone FUCKER. (boo!)
I'm a player! - I use my rules the two-thousand-and-five
Two live crews in the Moulin Rouge. (yeah!)
When I party - I'm tend to get a few long screws
So I'm in the V.I.P with the two long ruegs. (uh-huh!)
You stupid to go against us, cause you gon' loose.
We got bullets! - The size of newborn shoes. (whooo!)
And I'm connected around the board, so the SouthSide cheap
Out in Ca$hville nothing 'bout steel and gold-teeth. (whattup?)
You ain't got to know Hip-Hop to know 'bout this (uh-uh!)
Entrepono nigga with the poke-out wrist! (yeah!)
Give me the dice! - I fuck around and throw bout six
And be the reason you roll out piss! - I'm buyin Cris' with this. (yeeeeeeeah!)
I'm from the slum, so this is pitched
To the lil' niggaz, that never got a christmas gift.
Give me a minute - to hear me out
So clear my name from the bullshit (uh-huh!) - cause gettin' money what I'm really 'bout!
And chinchilla when it's chilly out (uh!)
Rollin' up a phillie blunt, pay attention to how I really stunt. (whooo!)
Ether you gangsta or really drunk.
Fuck what ya heard! - My clique run the city chump! [echoes]
[22 seconds instrumental]
Allow me to display exelence;
Pappa caught a nut, mamma had a son and I've been this way ever since. (whooo!)
You know - head full of neglelance
'Till a "high-dawg" in the bing over bitch-made evidence.
My whole hood on the chase for dead presidensts,
Cause ain't nothing out here. - che'-che' check out my residence!
Man I'm the best! - Nothing more nothing less
But I will be the greatest when I "back-off" my haters! (g'eah!)
My neighborhoods good but I don't wave to my neighbors,
They wouldn't see it anyway. - They 'bout a block away, HEY!
My flow is rawer than "Columbian Yay"
I'm like the MJ in his day; hungry to play.
And the 11-7 Suburban there come with a 'K
It's onroad offroad put your Hummers away, okay?
Come swingin' you'll be bleeding from the gun
Cause I ain't tryna wrestle not even with my thumb. (OOOHH!)
I went to hot Cancoon from freezin' in the slum
Half done! (uh-huh!) Of Bacardi Breezers with the rum. (WHOOO!)
I ain't never been a cuddeler she's leavin when I come,
Like D-Bo with his right: "Spend the evening with your son! "
You ain't leaving with a crumb. - Bitch I'm from the hood, ya heard?
Violate I wish you would you bird!
Y'all don't want it with the boywonder!
That'll only get you in a rumble - crawlin' on the floor like a fumble. - nigga! [beat fades out]
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