letra de gettin money - lloyd banks
[20 seconds instrumental]
i’m tired of n-gg-s thinkin’ they sylvester – but now you prob’ly thinkin’ wich one
sh-t, rambo, rocky pick one! (oooh!)
i’m in the seven star telly
and the roomkey come with a butler if you bring it, you gone f-cker. (boo!)
i’m a player! – i use my rules the two-thousand-and-five
two live crews in the moulin rouge. (yeah!)
when i party – i’m tend to get a few long screws
so i’m in the v.i.p with the two long ruegs. (uh-huh!)
you stupid to go against us, cause you gon’ loose.
we got bullets! – the size of newborn shoes. (whooo!)
and i’m connected around the board, so the southside cheap
out in ca$hville nothing ’bout steel and gold-teeth. (whattup?)
you ain’t got to know hip-hop to know ’bout this (uh-uh!)
entrepono n-gg- with the poke-out wrist! (yeah!)
give me the dice! – i f-ck around and throw bout six
and be the reason you roll out p-ss! – i’m buyin cris’ with this. (yeeeeeeeah!)
i’m from the slum, so this is pitched
to the lil’ n-gg-z, that never got a christmas gift.
give me a minute – to hear me out
so clear my name from the bullsh-t (uh-huh!) – cause gettin’ money what i’m really ’bout!
and chinchilla when it’s chilly out (uh!)
rollin’ up a phillie blunt, pay attention to how i really stunt. (whooo!)
ether you gangsta or really drunk.
f-ck what ya heard! – my clique run the city chump! [echoes]
[22 seconds instrumental]
allow me to display exelence;
pappa caught a nut, mamma had a son and i’ve been this way ever since. (whooo!)
you know – head full of neglelance
’till a “high-dawg” in the bing over b-tch-made evidence.
my whole hood on the chase for dead presidensts,
cause ain’t nothing out here. – che’-che’ check out my residence!
man i’m the best! – nothing more nothing less
but i will be the greatest when i “back-off” my haters! (g’eah!)
my neighborhoods good but i don’t wave to my neighbors,
they wouldn’t see it anyway. – they ’bout a block away, hey!
my flow is rawer than “columbian yay”
i’m like the mj in his day; hungry to play.
and the 11-7 suburban there come with a ‘k
it’s onroad offroad put your hummers away, okay?
come swingin’ you’ll be bleeding from the gun
cause i ain’t tryna wrestle not even with my thumb. (ooohh!)
i went to hot canc–n from freezin’ in the slum
half done! (uh-huh!) of bacardi breezers with the rum. (whooo!)
i ain’t never been a cuddeler she’s leavin when i come,
like d-bo with his right: “spend the evening with your son! ”
you ain’t leaving with a crumb. – b-tch i’m from the hood, ya heard?
violate i wish you would you bird!
y’all don’t want it with the boywonder!
that’ll only get you in a rumble – crawlin’ on the floor like a fumble. – n-gg-! [beat fades out]