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Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
CyHi
CyHi
Vocals
V. Johnson
V. Johnson
Vocals
OX
OX
Vocals
Novel
Novel
Vocals
Anthony Majors Jr
Anthony Majors Jr
Drums
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Cydel Young
Cydel Young
Composer
Brandon Sewell
Brandon Sewell
Composer
William Tyler
William Tyler
Composer
Alonzo Stevenson
Alonzo Stevenson
Composer
K. Rachel Mills
K. Rachel Mills
Composer
Brandon Black
Brandon Black
Composer
Girvan Henry
Girvan Henry
Composer
Mark Byrd
Mark Byrd
Composer
Michael Davis
Michael Davis
Composer
Darius Jenkins
Darius Jenkins
Composer
Orlando Powell
Orlando Powell
Composer
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Novel
Novel
Producer
Anthony Majors Jr
Anthony Majors Jr
Recording Engineer
Brandon Black
Brandon Black
Producer
Mark Byrd
Mark Byrd
Producer
Darius Jenkins
Darius Jenkins
Recording Engineer
Finis "KY" White
Finis "KY" White
Mixing Engineer
John Horesco
John Horesco
Mastering Engineer

Lyrics

It's one in the same as muscle, you're a great hustler, ya dig? And you gotta keep it playa all the time, man You ain't even gotta keep it G You got too many gangsters on your team with you (CyHi!) What's crazy, is real live spots It don't be no dope on Sundays, or thots Because that's when them folks sliding through Them they main days, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays So you either pick yo days or pick yo battles right, cuz Shit, nigga look up and be lost People straight just moving and smuggling All you gotta do is make sure that shit hit that safe And you gon have a bank roll to put in Get your money and get out the game Get your money and get out the game Get your money and get out the game Get your money... I'm from the home of the Georgia peach We had to call Meech if you wanted to order keys Our blow was from Miami (whew!) enjoy the Florida breeze Got a Zo' pound and broke it down to all quarter P's Don't run off with the pack, my nigga, we used to torture thieves Immigrant killers, huh, I think they Portuguese And y'all lookin' like some sittin' ducks just a porch of geese At 17, I was on the run with a fugitive All he gave me was game and I kept it like it a souvenir I swear I seen them things come, whiter than some new veneers I was supposed to be in school, I think it's like my junior year Cadillac Coupe DeVille, he said, "Remember three rules First you 'gon need a tool and if you pull it, shoot to kill Never shit where you lay, don't bring that work to the crib Clique full of killers, that means you got a weak crew You need some corporate gangsters, Just can't have a bunch of street dudes Never gang-bang but I can call 'em if I need to My homies was crippin' so hard, all they eat is seafood Had a manager named Bellow, he used to teach me Kung-Fu It was ironic 'cause I had to call him Sifu Boy I'm dope, you should put the lighter on the teaspoon All I know is drug-lords, kingpins, street cats Funny I'm all of them niggas rehab Fuck around and relapse when I hear this beat slap Just on Briarcliff Road alone, I was servin' like three traps I was deep in the game, I'm talkin' to my knee caps If a cutie was a mile, I just served a nigga three laps I be nervous when I rap cause I be thinking the beat tap-pin' You and your dogs is all bark, I'm talkin' tree sap Dig this, man sharpen man like steel sharpens steel, understand me? Check this out cuz, every nigga think he the slickest thing moving 'Til he gets washed in the game Get your money and get out the game (get money!) Get your money and get out the game Get your money and get out the game (get money!) Get your money (dollar, dollar bill!) Yeah, Godfathers, top shotters, block robbers Outsiders, box riders, God got us Dodge Chargers, mob daughters, trap houses Fly swatters, dough stoppers, got choppers Know mobsters who love murder, like soccer Light talker, put in work, night walker Might off ya, good shooter, knife propper Dice dropper, street ties, white collar I done seen it all, I was taught by the mob When you stop behind the car, give yourself another car length Can't let 'em box you in, that's how they did Pac them Only trust your friends as far as you can toss them And you ain't a boss if you ain't ever took a loss, pimp When you in the club leave your pistol on the car rim My OG's done retired, that's why the police never caught them So get your money and get out, that's the lost gem See this shit ain't got no love for nobody You niggas think you poppin' right now? You better have a back-up plan Put these fools up on this, CyHi There's only three ways out this shit Dead, jail or get your legal hustle on I'm talkin' car-washes, barbershops, real-estate App-stores, gyms, juice, clubs, ranch shops Studios, understand me? Get your money and get out the game (get money!) Get your money and get out the game Get your money and get out the game (get money!) Get your money (dollar, dollar bill!)
Writer(s): Robe Michalski, Gloria Jones, Orlando Powell, Joseph Peraino, Girvan Henry, Katherine Mills, Brandon Sewell, Brandon Black, Michael Davis, Darius Jenkins, Marcus Byrd, Pamela Sawyer, Alonzo Stevenson, William Tyler, William Jones, Cydel Young Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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