Nigga ain’t let me catch my breath
Nah, you heard me?

Ah! Peek-a-boo, bitch! (Yeah) Swag scare your kids (Huh?)
My airplane clothes flier than your best-est shit (Really)
Gorillas in the mist, pro-black: pump their fist
I’m from the Planet of the Apes, King Kong clips (Blah)
Silence lambs, bitch (Yes), run through your land tripping (ha ha ha)
Can’t pretend when this is real as it gets, can you? (No)
If shit hits the fan, I Ron-Artest niggas (Ha)
This how I’m living, getting tatted in some house slippers (Ah)
I like my bitches simple: lay back, relax your mental (Bitch)
Shit, you know what I do; now, tell me what you tryna get into
The man car’s rented (Right), the man car killing (Yes)
Gossiping? Man, fuck the car! Look at the man in it, ha!
Ha! Boys-to-man business (Yes), we don’t hire bitches (No)
Just fire bitches: Young Money fire-spitters (Ah)
Them red ants is with us (Ha ha), and they ain’t ate their dinner (No)
Begin the feast; feet lying, fatality finish
I’m killing these records, they put me in Guinness
I really don’t give a f-fuck if you witness
You hear it, listen, buy it, steal it
I’m still gonna get my fucking percentage
I cuss a lot ’cause, bitch, I’m serious, Young No-Beard
Get soup, like gumbo with shrimp
Flier than Dumbo ears is, bitch

Now, my dog, T, was just rocking, you heard me?
Hit the weed, T! You heard me?

Ugh! Now let me start by saying I don’t like this beat
But I weather the storm, I’m a lightning streak, ugh
Weezy F. Baby, I do it big—weigh me
Them crazy freaky bitches tryna Cirque-du-Soleil me
Got some new bitches, Trel got em’ laughing
The one that gave me head could suck the nail out a casket
Shotgun on the kitchen table, bullet shells in the cabinet
Fucking with me is like stepping on the tail of a dragon
Wet pussy is my cabin, more bitches than a pageant
I keep a house full, nigga—call me Bob Saget
Spending time backwards, hotter than a cactus
And we ain’t in the building—we’re the fucking contractors
Y—YM, motherfucker, why hate it?
Young Money down your throat, you gotta stay hydrated
Quarterback Weezy, young Tom Brady
Open up your mouth and catch a bomb, baby, ha ha!
Good morning, dude, Eagle-Street-Corner Tune
Long dough, no shortbread, no Lorna Doone
I’m warning you: we’re on the move
Bunch of female dogs and garden tools
That’s bitches and hoes, hospital full, sick of my flow
Hi—Hip-hop was washed up
So I brought some change to finish my load
I load millions and more millions
Money to the ceilings? Nigga, No Ceilings! I’m out!

Step up in this bitch, five o’clock in the morning
The world is waking up, you can hear the pigeons yawning
I’ma get that worm now; tell ’em it’s my turn now
Y’all niggas need a lesson, on some ethic—you gon’ learn now
I do this for the love of it; saliva, ’cause I love to spit
And I juke it; for my future records y’all gon’ love to spin
Fucking with my brethren, 10-years strong
And he put them dreads in: Silver, John Long
But he’s more like platinum; hold up, here’s a napkin
Pick your jaw up off the floor and tuck your tongue right back in
Tell me, where is Mack Maine?

That’s all I have!