Banks Victory

[Intro: 50 Cent, (The Notorious B.I.G.), [DJ Whoo Kid]] {*gunshot*} {*gunshot*} (One) (One, two) [Non-stop] (Yo, check me out right here yo) 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 hoes and more cheddar G-Unit move around with them pounds and Berettas Yeah faggot, if I want it, I'm gon' have it Regardless if it's handed to me, or I got to grab it Don't make a ass out of yourself trying to stop me I'm cocky, rap's Rocky, nigga you sloppy You know that I'm, eight levels above you nigga I'll plug you nigga, I never heard of you nigga Ugly nigga, I'm the wrong one to provoke You ratting on niggas is only going to leave you smoked So the only thing left now, is toasts 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 [50 Bars of Pleasure by Lloyd Banks] I got a industry gangstress, that argues, and steams the reefer And flip when I call her bitch, like she Queen Latifah Now all the vehicles is long enough to stash the street sweeper This shit can get uglier than the Master P sneaker I'm sliding through the raucous, with Prada on the chuckers So the spring break hoes home from college want to fuck us I ain't here to drop knowledge on you suckers I sic Rottweilers on you fuckers Cops following to cuff us Top dollars to discuss this, whole lot of zeros When it come to paper, I blow the soul out a hero I'mma break before I lay in the floor buried, besides Every rapper ain't a star, and every plaid ain't Burberry You can't tame Lloyd, we're smoking by the big screen Changing the channel, looks like I'm playing the Game Boy I know the watch bothering your vision But reach, and I put a dot on your head Like it's part of your religion Why party with a pigeon? I'm blowing a ten Because Bush handing out flyers, for a party in the 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 But it ain't a problem getting dressed Because my closet got more aisles than Pathmark Run when we starting a raid Or leave with twelve shells in your mouth, like a carton of eggs I'm a young pimp, pardon my age I don't got long hair, but if I did she'd be parting my braids Niggas find out what club they at, take them with us And run trains on them, like a subway map Your advance is a grey Acura See these record labels got most artists getting fucked like the gay rapper I go to college on the tour I'm goin down in history nigga, next to Wallace and Shakur Keep your ammo clean, Tech's polished in the drawer Camera's by the hampers that monitor the floor By now, you probably heard of me Fresh out of surgery, flashy as a fuck, you going to have to murder me Burglary, I'm leaving with your Nikes burgundy, white T: burgundy You match now, back down Niggas love to hate you, but love you when you disappear Catch me on a boat, with weed smoke and fishing gear Heavy when I tote, C-notes from different years Bezzy and the rope, remotes and lifting chairs You ain't rich, but we glad to snatch ya I send cars to your crib like I'm a cab dispatcher You're better off with the stupid guys, looking for a coupe to drive You ain't gettin' nuttin', but you french fries supersized It's a damn shame y'all still local I'm in a million dollar studio laying my vocals, nigga [Outro: 50 Cent] You still in the projects nigga, you ain't going nowhere You going to be there for the rest of your motherfucking life And your mama saying: I'm supposed to tell you something, to encourage you Something positive, alright: Well, I ain't going to lie to you motherfucker; You ain't going nowhere Get yourself a beer, and get on the fucking curb {*gunshot*} Fucking dirtbag {*gunshot*}