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Turn the music up, turn me down |
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Guru.. let's go get 'em again |
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This time it's for the money my nigga |
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Brooklyn, stand up |
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There's never been a nigga this good for this long |
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This hood, or this pop, this hot, or this strong |
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With so many different flows there's one for this song |
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The next one I switch up, this one will get bit up |
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These fucks, too lazy to make up shit, they crazy |
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They don't, paint pictures, they just, trace me |
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You know what? Soon they forget where they plucked |
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They whole style from, they try to reverse the outcome |
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I'm like - TOUGH! |
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I'm not a biter I'm a writer for myself and others |
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I say a B.I.G. verse, I'm only biggin up my brother |
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Biggin up my borough, I'm big enough to do it |
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I'm that thorough, plus I know my own flow is foolish |
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So them rings and things you sing about, bring 'em out |
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It's hard to yell when the bar-rell's in your mouth |
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I'm in - new sneakers, dual-seaters |
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Few divas, what more can I tell you? |
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Let me spell it for you |
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Double-U I, double-L, I-E |
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Nobody truer than, H-O-V |
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And I'm back for more, New York's ambassador |
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Prime Minister, back to finish my business up |
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What more can I say? |
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What more can I do? |
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I gave this up to you |
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I know this much is true, true |
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What more can I say to you? |
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You heard it all |
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You already know what I'm about, flyin birds down South |
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Movin wet off the step, "Purple Rain" in a drought |
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Stuntin on hoes; brushin off my shirt |
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But ain't nuttin on my clothes 'cept my chain, my name |
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Young H-O pitch the yay faithful |
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Even if they patrol I make payroll |
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Benz paid fo', friends they roll |
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Private jets down to Turks and Caicos |
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Crist' caseloads, I don't give a shit |
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Nigga one life to live, I can't let a day go |
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By without me bein fly or fresh to death |
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Head to toe 'til the day I rest |
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And I don't wear jerseys, I'm thirty plus |
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Give me a crisp pair of jeans, nigga button up |
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S. Dots on my feet make my cipher complete |
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What more can I say? Guru play the beat! |
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We gon' let this ride into the hook |
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- I'ma snap my fingers on this one |
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What more can I say to you? |
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- Get my grown man on |
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LET'S GO! |
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Now you know yo' ass is Willie when they got you in the mag |
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For like half a billy, and yo' ass ain't lily |
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White that mean that shit you write must be illy |
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Either that or your flow is silly - it's both |
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I don't mean to boast, but damn if I don't brag |
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Them crackers gon' act like I ain't on they ass |
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To Martha Stewart, that's far from Jewish |
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Far from a Harvard student, just had the balls to do it |
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And no I'm not through with it |
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In fact, I'm just previewin it |
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This ain't the show, I'm just EQ'n it |
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One-two and I won't stop abusin it |
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To groupie girls, stop false accusin it |
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Back to the music - the Maybach roof is translucent |
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Niggaz got a problem Houston! Heh |
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What up B, they can't shut up me |
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Shut down I, not even P.E., I'ma ride |
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God forgive me for my brash delivery |
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But I remember vividly what these streets did to me |
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So picture me lettin these clowns nitpick at me |
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Paint me like a pickany |
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I will literally kiss T.T. in the forehead |
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Tell her please forgive me then squeeze until you full 'head |
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I'm not the one to score points off, in fact |
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I got a joint that'll knock yo' points off |
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Young, Hova the God, nigga blasphemy |
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I'm at the Trump International, ask for me |
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I ain't never scared, I'm everywhere you ain't never there |
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And nigga, why would I ever care? |
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Pound for pound I'm the best to ever come around here |
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Excludin nobody, look what I embody |
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The soul of a hustler, I really ran the street |
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A CEO's mind, that marketin plan was me |
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And no I ain't get shot up a whole bunch of times |
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Or make up shit in a whole bunch of lines |
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And I ain't animated like say I +Busta Rhymes+ |
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But the real shit you get when you bust down my lines |
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Add that to the fact I went plat' a bunch of times |
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Times that by my influence on pop culture |
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I'm supposed to be number one on everybody list |
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We'll see what happens when I no longer exist |
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Fuck this! |
