This the remix, baby!
Yeah!
You already know what it is
‘Cause if you don’t you just don’t know nothing
Shit, period! Stupid

You know me, I just be chilling in the Phantom, listening to opera
Gun is my bodyguard, call it “Kevin Costner”
Probably won’t stop if I get to popping them shots
You niggas is sweeter than a box of Red Hots
Ha
Fuck around, see a flock of red dots
Smoke good, eat good
Only fuck a bitch if her throat good, feet good
Just bought a Fleetwood
And I’ma put some Ds on that bitch
Looking like I got a diamond disease on my wrist
Fresh, bunch of little Gs on my kicks
I’m a dog, you’re all a bunch of fleas on my dick
Young Money, Cash Money
And we gon’ get the money, even if it kills y’all
And I’ma ride ’til the motherfucking wheels off
George Gervin, I’ma get my chill on
I’m cold! Yeah, I get my Buffalo Bill on
Beating up your block—yeah, I get my Emmett Till on
In the New Edition—yeah, I get my Johnny Gill on
Keep a shotgun—yeah, I get my Jayson Will on
Fuck it, Swizz, I’m still going
Black entertainment—yeah, I get my Steven Hill on
Only to talk models—yeah, I get my Seal on
Make that chick rock, get my Amil on
Two girls, let ’em get their pill on
Let ’em get their feel on, I get my tip drill on
Hey, now why you’re that ice grill on?
I leave you’re looking like you got a barbecue grill on
Yeah, we got money to the ceil-on
Real nigga, I get my “Keep It Real” on
And they be lying on wax, like a earphone
Weezy Baby: the best from here on
Swizz, I’m in gear, homes
They’re in trouble, we’re gon’ bubble like beer foam
No homo, let ’em get their queer on
No commercial, I just take the Lear home
My girl, she get her Pam Grier on
She don’t touch me, I got cashmere on
I ball, and you just Erick Dampier, dawg
I’m dirty, I get my Bill Laimbeer on
Weezy the Beast, Swizzy the Monster
And we’re gone!

I’m stuffed