[Intro]

B-T-P, yah

Is the AutoTune on?

Hmhmm, good

Mm

[Verse]

Young Money, syrup in the big shot

Time to do the thing, that's word to your wristwatch

Shoot the Glock 'til it burn, 'til my wrist lock

Rims hella big, tires skinny like Chris Rock

H—Hold the gun sideways like O-Dog

Shoot a nigga in his face, knock his nose off

Make the girls say my name like a roll call

Painkillers got a nigga 'bout to doze off

Big shit, nigga, talk big shit, nigga

Big bread, bread like a picnic, nigga

Shake the whole game like the Hit-Stick, nigga

Money spread like germs, get sick, nigga

Yeah, and fuck them other niggas

1-900, who want it? I deliver

Concrete shoes won't help in the river

I don't care if you was Michael Phelps, my nigga

I'm higher than the motherfucking Alps, my nigga

I'm flyer than the motherfucking stealth, my nigga

Y—Young Money shit, top shelf, my nigga

We the motherfuckers, like MILF, my nigga

Ahem, flow like syringes

Yeah, I'm in my mode, got a code like Da Vinci's

I was in the trenches, now I'm in the Trump

And everybody watch your back when you're in the front

You ain't never safe, stop playing with a gangsta

Brang it to his face, and he ran like a flanker

Bend the girl over, put her hands on her ankles

I'm all over this "Ice Cream" beat like sprinkles

"Why, thank you!"—if you's a hater

I'm eating, you's a waiter

Pistol on my hip, "Tomb Raider"

Holler at your guala, zoom, later

Young Tune, nigga; typhoon, nigga

And if you think it's sweet, buy a room, nigga

Damu, nigga, I'm on my gang shit

She give me good brain like she studied at Cambridge

Lighting up a motherfucking blunt

Stupid-fruity swag like a motherfucking Runt

And I be with my dog like a motherfucker hunt

And every day of the week is the first of the month

Audemars Piguet with the diamonds in the face

Can't tell the time 'cause the diamonds in the face

We can get it popping like a semi-automatic

And if you got beef, I put the biscuit on the patty

Rockstar tatted, big-money addict

Running this shit, now I'm feeling ath-lat-ic

I—I'm on a boat, bitch, getting seasick

Stop playing, I'm fresher than a Degree stick

Street shit—well, of course

I smoke mad weed, I'm on my high horse

Please, don't shoot me down, I land feet flat

Then walk a million miles with New Orleans on my back

Haha! I need a massage

And when it come to hoes, man, I got a collage

Finger on the button, nigga, just stuntin'

If you ain't the bank teller, don't tell me nothing

Kush so strong, you can smell me coming

Bitch, I go hard like the boy from "300"

You think y'all kick it, well, boy, we punting

Young Money, baby, we the shit, weak stomachs

No Ceilings, motherfucker