[Intro: The Notorious B.I.G. sample + (DJ Whoo Kid)]

{*gunshot*}

{*gunshot*}

One, one, two

(Non-stop)

Yo, check me out right here yo

[Verse 1: 50 Cent]

Yo, yo we can't stay alive forever

So if shit hit the fan then we might as well die together

I'm high as ever, more holes and more cheddar

G-Unit move around with them pounds and Berettas

Yea faggot, if I want it I'm gon' have it

Regardless if it's handed to me or I gotta grab it

Don't make a ass outta yaself tryin' to stop me

I'm cocky, rap's Rocky, nigga you sloppy

You know that I'm, 8 levels above you, nigga

I'll club you, nigga, I never heard of you, nigga, ugly nigga

I'm the wrong one to provoke

You rattin' on niggas is only gon' leave you smoked

So the only thing left now is tools for these cowards

I got no friends, fuck most of these cowards

They pop shit 'till we start approaching these cowards

While we lay around dollars, they lay around flowers

[Verse 2: Lloyd Banks]

I got a industry gangstress, that argues, and steams the reefer

And flip when I call her bitch, like she Queen Latifah

Not all the vehicle's is long enough to stash the street sweeper

This shit can get uglier than the Master P sneaker

We slidin through the ruckus, with Prada on the chuckus

So the spring break hoes home from college wanna fuck us

I ain't here to drop knowledge on you suckas

I sic Rottweilers on you fuckas, cops followin' to cuff us

Top dollars to discuss this, whole lot of zeros

When it comes to paper, I blow a soul out a hero

I'ma break before I lay floor buried

Besides, every rapper ain't a star, and every plaid ain't Burberry

You can't tame Lloyd, smokin' by the big screen

Changin' the channel, looks like I'm playin' the Game Boy

I know the watch botherin' ya vision

But reach, and I'll put a dot on ya head like it's part of your religion

Why party with a pigeon?

I'm blowin' a 10 'cause Bush handin' flyers for a party in a prison

I'm in the Gucci vest, with the green and red straps

I'm the last rapper to scare niggas since Craig Mack

Now every morning's a fast start

And there ain't problem gettin' dressed 'cause my closet got more aisles than Pathmark

Run, move startin' a wave

Or leave with 12 shells in ya mouth like a carton of eggs

I'm the young pimp pardon my age

I don't got long hair but if I did she be partin' my braids

Niggas find what club they at

Take 'em with us, and run a train on 'em like a subway map

Your advance is grey Acura

See these record labels got most artists gettin' fucked like the gay rapper

I go to college on the tour

I'm goin' down in history nigga, next to Wallace and Shakur

I keep ya ammo clean, text polished in the drawer

Camera's by the hamper that monitor the floor

By now, you probably heard of me

Fresh outta surgery, flashy as a fuck, you gon' have to murder me

Burglary, I'm leavin' with your Nikes burgundy, white tee: burgundy

You match now, back down

Niggas love to hate you, but love you when you disappear

Catch me on the boat with weed smoke and fishin' gear

Heavy when I toke, C-notes from different years

Bezzy and the rope, remotes and liftin chairs

You ain't rich, but we glad to snatch ya

I send cars to your crib like I'm a cab dispatcher

You better off with the stupid guys, lookin' for a coupe to drive

You ain't gettin nuttin' but ya french fries supersized

It's a damn shame y'all still local

I'm in a million dollar studio layin my vocals, nigga

[Outro: 50 Cent]

Still in the projects nigga, you ain't goin' nowhere

You gon' fuckin' be there for the rest of your muthafuckin' life

And your momma sayin': I'm supposed to tell you somethin'

To encourage you, somethin' positive, aight:

Well, I ain't gon' lie to you muthafucka, he ain't goin' nowhere

Get yourself a beer, and get on the fuckin' curb {*gunshot*}

You fuckin' dirt bag {*gunshot*}