Oh Yeah (feat. Spragga Benz)

Stick it up, mister

Hear what I'm saying, sir, yeah

Yeah, no-no-no-no, yeah

Get your hands in the air, sir

Woo, yeah

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo (Yagga-yo)

I'm the most critically acclaimed rap bitch in the game

Coast-to-coast, stash the gat in holster girl

Dark-skinned Christian Dior poster girl

I'm a rockin'-Timbs-bitch and the Gucci loafer girl

**** say I'm too pretty to spit rhymes this gritty

Fuck y'all thought, be dancing round in suits like I'm

Pretty, show **** how we run this city

Respect my name, Boogie ****, stay in your lane

Like The Hurricane, rains on bitches like Sugar Shane

And dare one of y'all rap bitches to mention Fox name

What's beef? Beef is when bitches think it's sweet

See y'all frontin' in the streets and let my gat leak, yeah

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo (Yagga-yo)

It's like I'm in my own fuckin' world, I speak how I feel

Sometimes I feel like I'm just too fuckin' real

I love to stack riches, no disrespect, y'all

I respect the rap game but I don't fuck with rap bitches

I'm speakin' from my heart

It's not that I'm too good, I'm just hood

Been like this from the fuckin' start

Since I bust my gun in '96

Ya'll ain't never seen me flick up with them fake-ass chicks

Bitches smile up in your face, turn around and pop shit

You a industry bitch, I'm a in-the-streets bitch

I might breeze through Prada, Chloe, or Tiff's

But other than that, it's just me and my six

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo (Yagga-yo)

I dream filthy, my moms and pops mixed it with the Trini' rum and whiskey, uh

Proper set off

Six sped off, gats let off, I speak calm

Gangsta and pose off like Screechie Dan, boy

Who y'all know rock Prada like Fox?

Pop bottles in the back of the cellar with Donatella

Cartier wrist wear, Pasha Cage face

Y'all **** stand in line just to get a sneak taste

Act like y'all don't know I keeps gat beneath waist

And like a hundred thou', each crib in each safe

When Fox come through, she ah go dun di place

I'm like Marion Jones, what? Who the fluck wan' race

Listen, never trippin', never catch Brown slippin'

Fuck, y'all only nice around mics like Pippen

Shit, to all my thugs that's Bloodin' or Crippin'

I'm still shittin', still low-ridin' and switch-hittin' ****

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo (Yagga-yo)

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo

Why yo, why yo-yo-yo

Why yo, why yagga-yo-yo (Yagga-yo)

Yeah

Oh, yeah

No