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I rub your face off the Earth and curse your family children,
Like Amityville; I drill the nerves in your cavity filling.
Insanity’s building a pavilion in my civilian
The cannon be the anarchy that humanity’s dealin’.
A villain without remorse who’s willing to out your boss
Forever…and take all the cheddar like child support.
You know how it go when you got no dough:
Niggas goin out to party and you got no clothes.
And when you do get clothes, then you can’t go out
That’s the bullshit I’m talkin’ about.
Ain’t no tellin’ what I’d do for a dollar…
I’m not your father, but guess what I’mma do to ya mama.
30 rack on a neck of a artist (Say what?)
About another 20K on his arm (Say what?)
This nigga flashin’ 50 grand,
Walk around here, lookin like food for the wolves.
Listen! Illuminati rap: we don’t ride to that,
Everybody poppin’ molly…look at how they act.
(Y’all sweatin’) The whole place emotional,
Wake up to find out some dude’s Frank Ocean’ed you.
You got a lot of money; OK, sure…
You can’t buy class, you’re a bum with a manicure.
My duration’s infinite, money-wise or physiology.
It was Saturday night and I was feelin kinda funny,
Gold around my neck, pockets full of money.
They’d rather see me fail than succeed,
That’s why I’m alone on my own with no team.
Don’t need no green, though I got some to spend;
In the end…all I really need is a friend.
This ain’t no alien conspiracy theory, this shit is real;
Written on the dollar underneath the Masonic seal.
I had a church girl, quiet girl…one girl was rich.
The most memorable girl was a Gangsta Bitch.
We went out a lot, sometimes we dressed the same,
Lickin’ shots in the park and had pet names:
I called her ‘Dollars’ cause that’s what she liked to spend;
She called me ‘Diamond’ cause my dick was her best friend.
We still wading in the water…
Cocaine, blunts, marinating in the water.
Lean and took a puff, and then she gave it to my father,
Used to take the bullets out so I could play with the revolver.
Satan serenading ever since I was a toddler,
Tell ‘em talk is cheap…niggas living for the dollar.
I’d rather make one righteous dollar on my level
Than make a million dollars spittin’ rhymes for the devil.
The IRS’ll never sweat me or even put up a fight…
Cause I’m sure I’ve paid more in taxes than you’ve made in yo’ life!
I got a problem with spending before I get it…
We all self-conscious, I’m just the first to admit it.
Just ‘cause you got money don’t mean you made it.
Just ’cause you make it, don’t give you the right to be on that fake shit.
I clock G’s while you clock Z’s.
And I don’t smoke crack…I smoke MC’s.
Play the game for my people, stay in charge of your dreams.
Keep your vision focused, get wise, and largen your C.R.E.A.M.
If you don’t got endz, you won’t be gettin’ no skinz,
And if you don’t got money, you won’t scoop a honey.
If you don’t got cash, you won’t be gettin’ no ass,
And if you don’t got loot, you won’t be knockin’ no boots.
You download it for free, we get charged back for it.
I know you’re saying, “They won’t know, they won’t miss it,
Besides, I ain’t a thief, they won’t pay me a visit.”
So, if I come to your job, take your corn on the cob,
And take a couple kernels off it, that would be alright with you?
You lose money chasing women;
Never lose women chasing money.
MCs get a little bit of love and think they hot,
Talkin bout how much money they got…all y’all records sound the same.
I’m sick of that fake thug, R&B-rap scenario, all day on the radio,
Same scenes in the video, monotonous material.
…Y’all don’t hear me though:
These record labels slang our tapes like dope.
You can be next in line and signed, and still be writing rhymes and broke.
Girls stick like Crazy Glue, they think they’re gettin’ dough;
But I treat hoes like drugs: I just say ‘No.’
I got a girl and she treat me fine,
But the homies all think that I’m losin’ my mind.
I’m trippin’ and I know it cause I’m all nerved up,
Cause everytime I go to sleep, I see this big ol’ butt.
See, I ain’t never gave no chick 4 stars,
But she treat me so good that she be drivin my car.
And every day it get better, I can’t lie,
Went to the house and she made me some hot potato pie.
All my friends be sayin, “She ain’t nothin but a scrub!”
But she make me feel high like I’m hooked on drugs.
So I give her what she need, and what’s done is done,
But I’m a special kind of fool but ayo, it don’t bother me none.
I can’t help myself, I know that I’m trippin’,
But she got it goin’ on like Kentucky Fried Chicken.
What you base your happiness around?
Material, women, and large paper?
That means you inferior, not major.
Guns and the sneakers made Jada.
The bitches and the reefer came later
With the money and the haters.
Payback’s a bitch, that’s why I never borrow;
And if push comes to shove, I’d do a stickup tomorrow.
Raise your right palm: We do solemnly swear
To stack more dough more calmly this year.
I go to Queens for queens to get the crew from Brooklyn,
Make money in Manhattan and never been tooken.
Go Uptown and the Bronx to boogie down,
Get strong on the Island, recoup, and lay around.
I don’t know what’s better: getting laid or getting paid.
I just know when I’m getting one, the other’s getting away.
Why give you the cure when the disease makes money?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a funny bastard…
But when it come to money, son, I’m not the one to laugh with.
My sense of self and my mental health
Is much more powerful than any hint of wealth.
I wanna live like Arnold, Willis and Mr. Drummond…
And keep my paper sturdy, big birds and tight herbs.
All we want in this life is peace, prosperity and a little paper.
Time is money, every moment is costly,
So I ration emotion, ‘cause existence exhausts me.
I refuse to abuse my savings and loans,
So if you want some ends, baby, you best go get your own.
Now I said it once before, and I’m a say it again:
Best believe you won’t receive no dividends.
Success is what you make it, take it how it come.
A half a mil in twenties, like a billion where I’m from.
An arrogant drug dealer, the legend I become,
CNN said I’d be dead by 21.
Blackjack…I just pulled an ace,
As you looking at the king in his face.
Everything has a price…
No matter if it’s fortune, fame or your life.
I understood later that it’s all about paper,
Everything has a fee in the land of the free.
The principles of true hip-hop have been forsaken,
It’s all contractual and about money makin’.
Rebel, renegade, must stay paid.
This is doomsday for MCs with hollow skills,
Who talk about clothing articles and dollar bills,
And fake ass rides that they don’t even drive.
Hip-hop is war and only strong MCs will survive.
I’m on some tax-free shit by any means,
Whether bound to hit scheme or some counterfeit C.R.E.A.M.
Some girls barely speak, but always askin’ for a dollar.
When I need bread, I grab the toaster and stick niggas for they crumbs.
Every time the ball drop on New Year’s Eve,
We toast to more money, we smoke to more cheese…
‘That buck that bought the bottle coulda struck the lotto.’
To invest in scratch tickets is a fucked up motto.
Lookin down the barrel of a gun, son of gun, son of a bitch, gettin paid, gettin rich!
Havin’ cash is highly addictive, especially when you’re used to havin’ money to live with.
Life is a gamble, we scramble for money,
I might crack a smile, but ain’t a damn thing funny.