Lyrics Lloyd Banks – Gettin Money

I’m in the seven star telly
And the roomkey come with a butler if you bring it, you gone FUCKER. (boo!)
I’m a player! — I use my rules the two-thousand-and-five
Two live crews in the Moulin Rouge. (yeah!)
When I party — I’m tend to get a few long screws
So I’m in the V.I.P with the two long ruegs. (uh-huh!)
You stupid to go against us, cause you gon’ loose.
We got bullets! — The size of newborn shoes. (whooo!)
And I’m connected around the board, so the SouthSide cheap
Out in Ca$hville nothing ’bout steel and gold-teeth. (whattup?)
You ain’t got to know Hip-Hop to know ’bout this (uh-uh!)
Entrepono nigga with the poke-out wrist! (yeah!)
Give me the dice! — I fuck around and throw bout six
And be the reason you roll out piss! — I’m buyin Cris’ with this. (yeeeeeeeah!)
I’m from the slum, so this is pitched
To the lil’ niggaz, that never got a christmas gift.
Give me a minute — to hear me out
So clear my name from the bullshit (uh-huh!) — cause gettin’ money what I’m really ’bout!
And chinchilla when it’s chilly out (uh!)
Rollin’ up a phillie blunt, pay attention to how I really stunt. (whooo!)
Ether you gangsta or really drunk.
Fuck what ya heard! — My clique run the city chump!
echoes

22 seconds instrumental

Verse 2:
Allow me to display exelence;

Pappa caught a nut, mamma had a son and I’ve been this way ever since. (whooo!)
You know — head full of neglelance
‘Till a «high-dawg» in the bing over bitch-made evidence.
My whole hood on the chase for dead presidensts,
Cause ain’t nothing out here. — che’-che’ check out my residence!
Man I’m the best! — Nothing more nothing less
But I will be the greatest when I «back-off» my haters! (g’eah!)
My neighborhoods good but I don’t wave to my neighbors,
They wouldn’t see it anyway. — They ’bout a block away, HEY!
My flow is rawer than «Columbian Yay»
I’m like the MJ in his day; hungry to play.
And the 11-7 Suburban there come with a ‘K
It’s onroad offroad put your Hummers away, okay?
Come swingin’ you’ll be bleeding from the gun
Cause I ain’t tryna wrestle not even with my thumb. (OOOHH!)
I went to hot Cancoon from freezin’ in the slum
Half done! (uh-huh!) Of Bacardi Breezers with the rum. (WHOOO!)
I ain’t never been a cuddeler she’s leavin when I come,
Like D-Bo with his right: «Spend the evening with your son! »
You ain’t leaving with a crumb. — Bitch I’m from the hood, ya heard?
Violate I wish you would you bird!
Y’all don’t want it with the boywonder!
That’ll only get you in a rumble — crawlin’ on the floor like a fumble. — nigga!
beat fades out