[Verse 1 - 40 Cal]

You see, my money like a baker's shop

That's why I make the powder blow

First I get "papi" bread, then I make sour dough

You still pump-a-nickel, move every hour: slow

My work so powerful. Your money ours, bro

Ain't no bagel jokes, but for butter I be raisin' toast

Like a bread truck I keep the latest loafs

I serve beef, grab pounds and squeeze

Get sick with the 40, call it "Mad Cal Disease"

My niggas get down for cheese and felony raps

Ya'll niggas hamsters: really can't tell if they rats

But you call em turtles when the shell in they back

I play 8Ball from Menace, I can help you with that

Then I'm back to melt the track soon as the vanilla crack

2-door NSX: that's a selfish Ac'

Mack to your pelvis, black, I put you where Elvis sat

Walk in pawn shops when I take your chain and sell it back

[Hook]

(It's the Dip-dip-d-d-d-dip-Dipset!)

You guys are not a threat, pay homage to the best

(Dip-dip-d-d-d-dip-Dipset!)

We got the streets owned, you cannot compete, holmes

(It's the Dip-dip-d-d-d-dip-Dipset!)

Any problems it's a wrap, we put Harlem on the map

(Dip-dip-d-d-d-dip-Dipset!)

You now rockin' with the best, pay homage to the Set

[Verse 2 - J.R. Writer]

Listen: I'm 'bout flipping, but if the slouch tripping

I put some scratch on his head like his scalp's itching

Dig it: JR is hot. Whippin': the car is drop

Barbies watch the dealer. Admit it: I'm hard to top

Hater, I'm back. Face it: you're whack

JR is crack, the same thing they place in a pack

I stay in the trap

So, no, you won't hear "808" when I put some damn bass on a track

I bring the fiends out, give them niggas what they need

I don't see droughts, it is figures what I see

Bring them ki's out to the middle of the P's

No matter the temperature degree

Rain, sleet, snow, I'm pitching em for sheez

Peel bricks, you'll have to go to Switzerland for these

I get them off the greez, it's easy to the beast

You should bow down the next time you see me in the streets!