B-T-P, yah
Is the AutoTune on?
Hm hmm, good
Mm

Young Money, syrup in the big shot
Time to do the thing, that’s word to your wristwatch
Shoot the Glock ’til it burn, ’til my wrist lock
Rims hella big, tires skinny like Chris Rock
H—Hold the gun sideways like O-Dog
Shoot a nigga in his face, knock his nose off
Make the girls say my name like a roll call
Painkillers got a nigga ’bout to doze off
Big shit, nigga, talk big shit, nigga
Big bread, bread like a picnic, nigga
Shake the whole game like the Hit-Stick, nigga
Money spread like germs, get sick, nigga
Yeah, and fuck them other niggas
1-900, who want it? I deliver
Concrete shoes won’t help in the river
I don’t care if you was Michael Phelps, my nigga
I’m higher than the motherfucking Alps, my nigga
I’m flyer than a motherfucking stealth, my nigga
Y—Young Money shit, top shelf, my nigga
We the motherfuckers, like MILF, my nigga
Ahem, flow like syringes
Yeah, I’m in my mode, got a code like Da Vinci’s
I was in the trenches, now I’m in the Trump
And everybody watch your back when you’re in the front
You ain’t never safe, stop playing with a gangster
Brang it to his face, and he ran like a flanker
Bend the girl over, put her hands on her ankles
I’m all over this “Ice Cream” beat like sprinkles
“Why, thank you!”—if you’s a hater
I’m eating, you’s a waiter
Pistol on my hip, “Tomb Raider”
Holler at your guala, zoom, later
Young Tune, nigga, typhoon, nigga
And if you think it’s sweet, buy a room, nigga
Damu, nigga, I’m on my gang shit
She give me good brain like she studied at Cambridge
Lighting up a motherfucking blunt
Stupid-fruity swag like a motherfucking Runt
And I be with my dog like a motherfucker hunt
And every day of the week is the first of the month
Audemars Piguet with the diamonds in the face
Can’t tell the time ’cause the diamonds in the face
We can get it popping like a semi-automatic
And if you got beef, I put the biscuit on the patty
Rock-star tatted, big-money addict
Running this shit, now I’m feeling athletic
I—I’m on a boat, bitch, getting seasick
Stop playing, I’m fresher than a Degree stick
Street shit—well, of course
I smoke mad weed, I’m on my high horse
Please, don’t shoot me down, I land feet flat
Then walk a million miles with New Orleans on my back
Ha ha! I need a massage
And when it come to hoes, man, I got a collage
Finger on the button, nigga, just stunting
If you ain’t the bank teller, don’t tell me nothing
Kush so strong, you can smell me coming
Bitch, I go hard like the boy from “300”
You think y’all kick it, well, boy, we’re punting
Young Money, baby, we’re the shit, weak stomachs
No Ceilings, motherfucker