Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

What's your rank, kid?

Bitch, I let them pistols talk come and speak my language

It's too crowded up in this bitch, no Russian, the banquet

Send your soul right back to the lobby, I make him rage-quit

Your pockets too weightless, life been getting too plain, son

I'm thinking 'bout bringing your bitch to my crib hip thrusting her face, tongue and all

Y'all talk, but can't hurt a damn fly you cowards ain't dangerous

Put some hair on your chest, if you feeling upset, pussy boy, come say some

You ain't safe as you guessed boy that bulletproof vest still a get your brain bust

Soon as I wake up, I grab my strap load up two mags and count my cake up

Your bitches face stuffed, right in my domain punk

Got a problem, I break my goddamn fist right across your face punk

I'm back in my mood, too grumpy like Scrooge

Trim some off top peel his head back smooth, attitude on rude

Better keep that stick tucked 'n' I advise you don't disobey

That MK4 slide side to side as I hit the break, while a bitch complain (yeah)

They ask me how the fuck you make it, bitch?

I did it, I just did it (I just did it)

Make her rage-quit, pistol hitting in his liver

I was 17 with cribs and whips and no I did not win it

I get high as fuck, you see me fly as fuck, you cannot be me

Don't slide with me, I got a .45 line with me

Cut ties if you lie to me

From the 702, cop a LV, up a LV

Couple thousand every time I leave and don't talk

You sound like a ho look

Whole time I was down here with no none

Now I got seven figures in the bank

Double R with a range

Now you come to my show look

Who to think, who to call, who to blame? Uh

Who ain't come around once, who the fake? Uh

Did this on my own, I don't care about the fame

And I don't need no hand to hold

I hope that pistol let it bang

Who to think, who to call, who to blame? Uh

Who ain't come around once, who the fake? Uh

Did this on my own, I don't care about the fame

And I don't need no hand to hold

I hope that pistol let it bang

What's your rank, kid?

Bitch, I let them pistols talk come and speak my language

It's too crowded up in this bitch, no Russian, the banquet

Send your soul right back to the lobby, I make him rage-quit

Your pockets too weightless, life been getting too plain, son

I'm thinking 'bout bringing your bitch to my crib hip thrusting her face, tongue and all

Y'all talk, but can't hurt a damn fly you cowards ain't dangerous

Put some hair on your chest, if you feeling upset, pussy boy, come say some

You ain't safe as you guessed boy that bulletproof vest still a get your brain bust

Soon as I wake up, I grab my strap load up two mags and count my cake up

Your bitches face stuffed, right in my domain punk

Got a problem, I break my goddamn fist right across your face punk (yeah)