Bitch!
The Aphilliates, nigga, holler at your boy
Uh-huh
DJ Drama!
My lip all fucked up
You probably could hear it, like, on my Ps and my Bs, but it’s cool, fuck it
Gangster!
Get ’em!

Shooting ’til my motherfucking hand fall off
You’re track stars; the gunshot ran y’all off (gangster!)
I pop like a soda, watch the can fall off
I can kill y’all and y’all boss (gangster Grillz, you bastards! Oh!)

Shooting ’til my motherfucking hand fall off
You’re track stars; the gunshot ran y’all off
I pop like a soda, watch the can fall off
I can kill y’all and y’all boss (gangster Gri-Zillz!)
Shotguns, handguns, louder than a band drum
You fucking with the drum major, let me play you the anthem (Oh!)
Bang-bang-bang-bang, call it heavy metal
I say, “Bang bang,” bitch, I make you feel every letter
B-A-N-G, B-A-N-G
G-A-N-G, we spray then leave
We play when we—no, we play N-E-
V-E-R; C-P-R
Doctor Carter, are you the disease, boy?
Young Money, motherfucker, these these boys
Bitch is you crazy? We’s retards
Watch Nina, Mac, and Tommy have a brief ménage
Like gangster!
Hehe! Like: gangster Gri-Zillz!
Hehe, yeah! Soulja Boy on the beat
But you can call me Chef Boyardee
‘Cause I’ma heat this shit, and I’ma eat this shit
Planet Earth is my toilet, you’re beneath this shit
Then I flush and wipe my ass; gunslinger like a pass
I cock back and throw a bomb—now, Hail Mary
You tale-fairy, fairytale, very frail
And yeah, we got them hammers, tryna hit every nail
Let them sail up the river with that ho shit
Or leave them face-down in the fucking ocean, yeah
I ain’t on no other shit, bitch, I’m on some more shit
That, “Hello, how you’re doing? I am at your front door” shit
That, “Aw, naw, he got a gun! Oh shit!” Shit
Shit

OK, it’s Young Money, what you know ’bout it?
The semi-auto’ll rip open your body and tear the soul out it
And all that fronting shit, nigga, I don’t know about it
Call me Master Jae, bitch, I’m so ’bout it
Even my ho ’bout it, and don’t doubt it
‘Cause we both a-be Angelina-and-Brad-ing
Spazzing and blasting, blasting and ratatating
And nah, I don’t cook, but like potatoes, I a-mash ’em
I don’t give a fuck about your money or your fashion
Shots through the window of your brand-new Aston
You get out, try to run, now your chest where them bullets crashing
Pine-box niggas, no crutches, no casts, and
No wheelchair, just the two-door, long, black wagon
Flowers on the side, and four wheels to steer
I ain’t never scared, and I ain’t never care
So fuck what they’re doing over there, I’m doing it here
You’re nothing like me, fuck boy, don’t be outlandish
We gorillas in the mist, y’all just some “Kung Fu Pandas”
Sweet like Fantas, ha
My blood is the same as Bruce Banner’s, hit record on the cameras
Motherfuck all the bullshit and antics
They’re saying, “He ain’t gotta get a clearance from Wayne.”
That’s a disadvantage
Being broke is a foreign language for me, like Spanish
Musically, I direct thrillers, call me John Landis

Hahaha
Gangster Grillz, you bastards!
Fuck that nigga in the red jacket, nigga
Gangster!
Gangster Gri-Zillz!

It’s the 5-0-4 slaughterhouse bloodbath
Little nigga stand tall like a giraffe
One-man gang, animal, cannibal
Eat rappers for dinner, my nickname “Hannibal”
Guns for days, I show you what this cannon do
Hit you and split your motherfucking man in two
I grab the chopper southpaw, that’s how I hold the toy
I aim and crank that bitch like Soulja Boy
I’m in the streets one-deep, I can hold my own
And shit, it’s only one seat, and I control the throne
Look, bitch, I’m on my crazy-ass shit
You see the gun poking out like Sheneneh lips, yeah
Watch your lips when talking
‘Cause I be on your grave, nigga, leaking in your coffin—
Rest in piss! When I die, let me rest with clips
Rambo, I’ma go on my Sylvester shit, bang!