Mafia Music 歌词
| 歌曲 | Mafia Music |
| 歌手 | Rick Ross |
| 专辑 | Studio Quality Instrumentals Pack 12 |
| 下载 | Image LRC TXT |
| I got a feelin nigga wit it ? and my money be da root. | |
| Look up at da stars, she like "Honey where da roof?" | |
| Pull up in a Dawes ?, canaries ? dey go on roof, | |
| Even once had a job pourin tar up on da roof. | |
| Dat boy had it hard, no facade it's da truth, | |
| So now when I menage and get massaged it's da proof. | |
| Proof's in da pudding and dat bakin soda taken, | |
| Paper dat I'm makin, gotta take dem photos naked. | |
| Listenin to niggas like whistlin dat Wendy Williams, | |
| I flip my middle finga, I'm chillin on twenty million. | |
| Da rumors turn me on I'm masterbatin at da top, | |
| These hoes so excited so dey catchin every drop. | |
| I'm dodgin debacles like pot holes in Jamaica, | |
| We cut down the weed, bury the paper on dem acres. | |
| Martin had a dream, Bob got high, | |
| I still do both but somehow I got by. | |
| Preflo prayed, Mike Vick payed, | |
| Bobby Brown strayed, Whitney lost weight. | |
| Kimbo Slice on da pad when I write, | |
| Dat may why the money lookin funny in the light. | |
| But who really cares? You just throw it in the air, | |
| Celebratin wealth, pourin Mo«t in her hair- | |
| Excuse me, her weeve- the bluest of weed, | |
| Trunk full of white, car smell like bleu cheese. | |
| Dat boy get salad ?, beef bout movements, | |
| BM dubs on dem big thangs lookin foolish. | |
| Shawty sittin low, big thangs poppin, | |
| Tip on da glock from a trip up in Compton. | |
| Shootin at da cops- fuck one time. | |
| I gave her to da block, I fucked one time. | |
| We boys in da hood and nigga you Lil' Trey, | |
| Suppress ya appetite, we takin ya lil' tray. | |
| Love my handgun but my choppa still da shit, | |
| Banned in 1994 but I'm too legit to quit. | |
| 1996, kilos was the shit, | |
| But dat were better den roofin dat shit be bad for ya skin. | |
| Niggas was ruthless, lord knows dat I sinned, | |
| But I thought about my future and the loops I could pin. | |
| Walked out on a gig and I turned to da streets, | |
| Kept my name low key, I ain't heard from in weeks. | |
| I came up with a strategy to come up mathematically, | |
| I did it for da city but now everybody mad at me. | |
| Mothafuck em all, they sweat from my balls, | |
| If I drop anotha album I did dat fo my dawgs. | |
| 10 Maybachs, everybody ridin big, | |
| I just sit back like: Look what I did. | |
| Den I bow my head and beg for forgiveness, | |
| Once I said my prayer, everybody back to business. | |
| Smokin on a blunt in my own restaurant, | |
| People lookin from a distance think I'm Big Daddy Kunk, | |
| Reincarnated, spirit of a G. | |
| Beef? I'll make you dinner, take a seat so we could eat. | |
| A Farrakhan aura, paws on the Port, | |
| You eat from da bowl while ya dog need a fork. | |
| Niggas ain't loyal, snakes slithered in dey coil, | |
| I'm laughin at you cuz, kill you niggas when I'm bored. | |
| We steppin on ya crew til the mothafuckas crushed, | |
| And makin sweet love to every women dat ya lust. | |
| I love to pay her bills, can't wait to pay her rent, | |
| Curtis Jackson baby mama ain't askin for a cent. | |
| Burn the house down, we gotta buy another, | |
| Don't forget the gas can, jealous, stupid muthafucka. | |
| To anotha chapter, paper dat I captured, | |
| Caught up in da rapture of gunshots and laughter. | |
| Homicide is human and nigga you lookin funny, | |
| Women love to stare cause dey know dey see da money. | |
| I open up a mind by openin bank accounts, | |
| Deposit a 100 stacks, break up or take it out. | |
| Baby dats a gift, maybe you could live, | |
| I knew it wouldn't work, but I just like to give. | |
| Used to run da street- young nigga, bare feet, | |
| Now I'm in da suites and I'm eatin crab meats. | |
| Ice so right, otha rappers envy, | |
| Dey callin all my jewelers up askin wat he spendin. | |
| Thinkin bout Boss, not thinkin bout dem, | |
| This a letter to my enemies, one I won't send. |
| I got a feelin nigga wit it ? and my money be da root. | |
| Look up at da stars, she like " Honey where da roof?" | |
| Pull up in a Dawes ?, canaries ? dey go on roof, | |
| Even once had a job pourin tar up on da roof. | |
| Dat boy had it hard, no facade it' s da truth, | |
| So now when I menage and get massaged it' s da proof. | |
| Proof' s in da pudding and dat bakin soda taken, | |
| Paper dat I' m makin, gotta take dem photos naked. | |
| Listenin to niggas like whistlin dat Wendy Williams, | |
| I flip my middle finga, I' m chillin on twenty million. | |
| Da rumors turn me on I' m masterbatin at da top, | |
| These hoes so excited so dey catchin every drop. | |
| I' m dodgin debacles like pot holes in Jamaica, | |
| We cut down the weed, bury the paper on dem acres. | |
| Martin had a dream, Bob got high, | |
| I still do both but somehow I got by. | |
| Preflo prayed, Mike Vick payed, | |
| Bobby Brown strayed, Whitney lost weight. | |
| Kimbo Slice on da pad when I write, | |
| Dat may why the money lookin funny in the light. | |
| But who really cares? You just throw it in the air, | |
| Celebratin wealth, pourin Mo t in her hair | |
| Excuse me, her weeve the bluest of weed, | |
| Trunk full of white, car smell like bleu cheese. | |
| Dat boy get salad ?, beef bout movements, | |
| BM dubs on dem big thangs lookin foolish. | |
| Shawty sittin low, big thangs poppin, | |
| Tip on da glock from a trip up in Compton. | |
| Shootin at da cops fuck one time. | |
| I gave her to da block, I fucked one time. | |
| We boys in da hood and nigga you Lil' Trey, | |
| Suppress ya appetite, we takin ya lil' tray. | |
| Love my handgun but my choppa still da shit, | |
| Banned in 1994 but I' m too legit to quit. | |
| 1996, kilos was the shit, | |
| But dat were better den roofin dat shit be bad for ya skin. | |
| Niggas was ruthless, lord knows dat I sinned, | |
| But I thought about my future and the loops I could pin. | |
| Walked out on a gig and I turned to da streets, | |
| Kept my name low key, I ain' t heard from in weeks. | |
| I came up with a strategy to come up mathematically, | |
| I did it for da city but now everybody mad at me. | |
| Mothafuck em all, they sweat from my balls, | |
| If I drop anotha album I did dat fo my dawgs. | |
| 10 Maybachs, everybody ridin big, | |
| I just sit back like: Look what I did. | |
| Den I bow my head and beg for forgiveness, | |
| Once I said my prayer, everybody back to business. | |
| Smokin on a blunt in my own restaurant, | |
| People lookin from a distance think I' m Big Daddy Kunk, | |
| Reincarnated, spirit of a G. | |
| Beef? I' ll make you dinner, take a seat so we could eat. | |
| A Farrakhan aura, paws on the Port, | |
| You eat from da bowl while ya dog need a fork. | |
| Niggas ain' t loyal, snakes slithered in dey coil, | |
| I' m laughin at you cuz, kill you niggas when I' m bored. | |
| We steppin on ya crew til the mothafuckas crushed, | |
| And makin sweet love to every women dat ya lust. | |
| I love to pay her bills, can' t wait to pay her rent, | |
| Curtis Jackson baby mama ain' t askin for a cent. | |
| Burn the house down, we gotta buy another, | |
| Don' t forget the gas can, jealous, stupid muthafucka. | |
| To anotha chapter, paper dat I captured, | |
| Caught up in da rapture of gunshots and laughter. | |
| Homicide is human and nigga you lookin funny, | |
| Women love to stare cause dey know dey see da money. | |
| I open up a mind by openin bank accounts, | |
| Deposit a 100 stacks, break up or take it out. | |
| Baby dats a gift, maybe you could live, | |
| I knew it wouldn' t work, but I just like to give. | |
| Used to run da street young nigga, bare feet, | |
| Now I' m in da suites and I' m eatin crab meats. | |
| Ice so right, otha rappers envy, | |
| Dey callin all my jewelers up askin wat he spendin. | |
| Thinkin bout Boss, not thinkin bout dem, | |
| This a letter to my enemies, one I won' t send. |
| I got a feelin nigga wit it ? and my money be da root. | |
| Look up at da stars, she like " Honey where da roof?" | |
| Pull up in a Dawes ?, canaries ? dey go on roof, | |
| Even once had a job pourin tar up on da roof. | |
| Dat boy had it hard, no facade it' s da truth, | |
| So now when I menage and get massaged it' s da proof. | |
| Proof' s in da pudding and dat bakin soda taken, | |
| Paper dat I' m makin, gotta take dem photos naked. | |
| Listenin to niggas like whistlin dat Wendy Williams, | |
| I flip my middle finga, I' m chillin on twenty million. | |
| Da rumors turn me on I' m masterbatin at da top, | |
| These hoes so excited so dey catchin every drop. | |
| I' m dodgin debacles like pot holes in Jamaica, | |
| We cut down the weed, bury the paper on dem acres. | |
| Martin had a dream, Bob got high, | |
| I still do both but somehow I got by. | |
| Preflo prayed, Mike Vick payed, | |
| Bobby Brown strayed, Whitney lost weight. | |
| Kimbo Slice on da pad when I write, | |
| Dat may why the money lookin funny in the light. | |
| But who really cares? You just throw it in the air, | |
| Celebratin wealth, pourin Mo t in her hair | |
| Excuse me, her weeve the bluest of weed, | |
| Trunk full of white, car smell like bleu cheese. | |
| Dat boy get salad ?, beef bout movements, | |
| BM dubs on dem big thangs lookin foolish. | |
| Shawty sittin low, big thangs poppin, | |
| Tip on da glock from a trip up in Compton. | |
| Shootin at da cops fuck one time. | |
| I gave her to da block, I fucked one time. | |
| We boys in da hood and nigga you Lil' Trey, | |
| Suppress ya appetite, we takin ya lil' tray. | |
| Love my handgun but my choppa still da shit, | |
| Banned in 1994 but I' m too legit to quit. | |
| 1996, kilos was the shit, | |
| But dat were better den roofin dat shit be bad for ya skin. | |
| Niggas was ruthless, lord knows dat I sinned, | |
| But I thought about my future and the loops I could pin. | |
| Walked out on a gig and I turned to da streets, | |
| Kept my name low key, I ain' t heard from in weeks. | |
| I came up with a strategy to come up mathematically, | |
| I did it for da city but now everybody mad at me. | |
| Mothafuck em all, they sweat from my balls, | |
| If I drop anotha album I did dat fo my dawgs. | |
| 10 Maybachs, everybody ridin big, | |
| I just sit back like: Look what I did. | |
| Den I bow my head and beg for forgiveness, | |
| Once I said my prayer, everybody back to business. | |
| Smokin on a blunt in my own restaurant, | |
| People lookin from a distance think I' m Big Daddy Kunk, | |
| Reincarnated, spirit of a G. | |
| Beef? I' ll make you dinner, take a seat so we could eat. | |
| A Farrakhan aura, paws on the Port, | |
| You eat from da bowl while ya dog need a fork. | |
| Niggas ain' t loyal, snakes slithered in dey coil, | |
| I' m laughin at you cuz, kill you niggas when I' m bored. | |
| We steppin on ya crew til the mothafuckas crushed, | |
| And makin sweet love to every women dat ya lust. | |
| I love to pay her bills, can' t wait to pay her rent, | |
| Curtis Jackson baby mama ain' t askin for a cent. | |
| Burn the house down, we gotta buy another, | |
| Don' t forget the gas can, jealous, stupid muthafucka. | |
| To anotha chapter, paper dat I captured, | |
| Caught up in da rapture of gunshots and laughter. | |
| Homicide is human and nigga you lookin funny, | |
| Women love to stare cause dey know dey see da money. | |
| I open up a mind by openin bank accounts, | |
| Deposit a 100 stacks, break up or take it out. | |
| Baby dats a gift, maybe you could live, | |
| I knew it wouldn' t work, but I just like to give. | |
| Used to run da street young nigga, bare feet, | |
| Now I' m in da suites and I' m eatin crab meats. | |
| Ice so right, otha rappers envy, | |
| Dey callin all my jewelers up askin wat he spendin. | |
| Thinkin bout Boss, not thinkin bout dem, | |
| This a letter to my enemies, one I won' t send. |
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