Lyrics Fabolous – Hustla’s Poster Child

Intro
Shout to Desert Storm
(«Gangsta Grillz, you BASTARDS!»)
Whattup? Shoutout Ski

Chorus: Fabolous
I’m supposed to style, I’m a hustler’s poster child
Girls see me they ‘posed to smile, ohhhhhhh
Can’t you tell I get my hustle on? Ohhhhhhh
Can’t you tell I get my hustle on?
H-U-S-T-L-E-R
Everywhere we go, bet they know who we are, ohhhhhhh
Can’t you tell I get my hustle on? Ohhhhhhh
Can’t you tell I get my hustle on?

(DJ DRAMA!!)

Fabolous
Now you could ask any hustler you know
They’ll tell you it’s in the wrist
I’m a good cook, make a hell of a dinner dish
Get stiffed quick, they say a fella is generous
I could sell stiff dick to Ellen Degeneres
I got a sales pitch, I should do a infomercial
I did Foreman Grill numbers on the strength of purple
Your money long, they go to any length to slurp you
So fuck a bitch ‘less she in the Oprah Winfrey circle
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll get at you honey
But I’m a bachelor, all I do is spatula money
Scoop it up and flip it, hoop it up and zip it
Stand over stoves, soup it up and whip it
I’m a chef that cook up ways to make me rich

Chorus

Fabolous
I move heavy weight, I could easily pull a muscle man
Like Tracy Morgan on Martin, call me hustle man
What you need chief, coca or the weed leaf?
Fuckin with my hustle’s only gon’ breed beef
Went South and came back with shoppin bags full of guns
Fresh out the box, poppin tags on the guns
A Carolina drive, up and down the 95
Got the 40’s for 7, but I sell ’em 9 from 5
Fuck a 9 to 5, I’m a hustleholic
I need rubberbands, these stacks’ll bust a wallet
The pills pull some money on a good E day
Every thing could buy and sell, hood eBay
You give me two dice, I ride it like the 4 train
Bring more 7-11’s than the store chain
You give me three of them, I shoot ’em like a milly clip
Roll more 6’s out then a Benz dealership

Chorus

Cassidy
Yup! You could tell I get my hustle on
The scent of crack in my clothes you smell I get my hustle on
It’s official y’all I was on my gristle y’all
And I whipped the raw in a Vlasic pickle jar
Before I had a deal, I was baggin krillz
And I had pills but they wasn’t Advils
These rap cats wanna be Nino Brown
But I’m the hustler, I do it like Nino now
I ain’t with the phone shit, in ’88 I was only 6
I missed that paper, but nine-six or later (what?)
I did it major, plenty niggaz could vouch for me
Like them niggaz that be runnin the coke house for me
But it ain’t ’bout what I was it’s ’bout what I’m ’bout to be
So I wanna shout out Fab for lookin out for me (‘Loso!!)
I beat my case even though some niggaz was doubtin me
I took them folks to trial, the poster child

Chorus