[Verse 1 - Bun B] You see me, you know that I'm on my Deen Down to get down anytime by any means Known to be OT, reppin on any scene And all about the paper, we stackin up plenty green From my city to your city, it's all the same These hoes disrespectin, they callin you out your name These niggaz lookin for work, there's guarantee to lock Put they dope up in they sock, then head out to the block These snitches wearin G uniforms to blend in Yeah we know you one of the ones Feds gon' send in Got caught, out of town, lookin at a dime So you wanna give other niggaz ya time And here's the new plan, they cut the dope way before you can By the time you get it, you like what the fuck to do man? You better be a certified chef Or your whole sellers fittin to go left to the death And street niggaz ain't got receipts so They fittin to try to sleep yo ass on the d-low Ridin like Deebo, comin like Carter You rollin like Marsellus Wallace, we roll harder Start a situation and we bring it to the end So take a memo motherfucker, send it to a friend Then send it to your kin or whoever care 'Cause when we come, we takin out whoever there Yeah, real talk, this is real nigga attitude Bring it your face, give me longitude and latitude Better show me some gratitude Or I'm a show you why God himself ain't never made a badder dude Then the one standin in front of you Bitch you know what I'm a do and don't call me B, this Mr. Bun to you Motherfucker fix ya grammar The next time you call a nigga bamma, you better have a hammer And I ain't talkin 'bout all that nail shit I'm talkin 'bout they poppin off and makin you bail shit We ride like Amtrak cross country You badder bitch? Then come in front and try to chump me Ah shit, ding, ding goes the bell That's the sign that ya bitch ass is fittin to take a L Don't give it to ya homeboy, take it for yourself And after I give it to ya, you can take it and tell And put in on ya Facebook wall And let your friends see, how a trill nigga took y'all and shook y'all Stompin like a nigga that's ten foot tall But don't trip it's just a friendly game of football Hold up and I'm the Super Bowl quarterback But yo bitch ass? You ain't even much a starter jack Go ahead and take ya team to the showers When we done with the trophy bitch, you can have ours 'Cause we packin more power And bound to make ya stop, drop and roll like the fuckin Twin Towers Hours on the clock goin by like seconds When you in the middle of a chin check and I wreck it With real live thugs at my beck and call They won't find no trouble disrespectin y'all So you bound to fall, somebody yell "timber!" You fuckin with the down South King, call me Simba And remember, who the fuck ya talkin to Or you'll see the pearly gates you'll be walkin through, fool
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[Verse 1 - Bun B] You see me, you know that I'm on my Deen Down to get down anytime by any means Known to be OT, reppin on any scene And all about the paper, we stackin up plenty green From my city to your city, it's all the same These hoes disrespectin, they callin you out your name These niggaz lookin for work, there's guarantee to lock Put they dope up in they sock, then head out to the block These snitches wearin G uniforms to blend in Yeah we know you one of the ones Feds gon' send in Got caught, out of town, lookin at a dime So you wanna give other niggaz ya time And here's the new plan, they cut the dope way before you can By the time you get it, you like what the fuck to do man? You better be a certified chef Or your whole sellers fittin to go left to the death And street niggaz ain't got receipts so They fittin to try to sleep yo ass on the d-low Ridin like Deebo, comin like Carter You rollin like Marsellus Wallace, we roll harder Start a situation and we bring it to the end So take a memo motherfucker, send it to a friend Then send it to your kin or whoever care 'Cause when we come, we takin out whoever there Yeah, real talk, this is real nigga attitude Bring it your face, give me longitude and latitude Better show me some gratitude Or I'm a show you why God himself ain't never made a badder dude Then the one standin in front of you Bitch you know what I'm a do and don't call me B, this Mr. Bun to you Motherfucker fix ya grammar The next time you call a nigga bamma, you better have a hammer And I ain't talkin 'bout all that nail shit I'm talkin 'bout they poppin off and makin you bail shit We ride like Amtrak cross country You badder bitch? Then come in front and try to chump me Ah shit, ding, ding goes the bell That's the sign that ya bitch ass is fittin to take a L Don't give it to ya homeboy, take it for yourself And after I give it to ya, you can take it and tell And put in on ya Facebook wall And let your friends see, how a trill nigga took y'all and shook y'all Stompin like a nigga that's ten foot tall But don't trip it's just a friendly game of football Hold up and I'm the Super Bowl quarterback But yo bitch ass? You ain't even much a starter jack Go ahead and take ya team to the showers When we done with the trophy bitch, you can have ours 'Cause we packin more power And bound to make ya stop, drop and roll like the fuckin Twin Towers Hours on the clock goin by like seconds When you in the middle of a chin check and I wreck it With real live thugs at my beck and call They won't find no trouble disrespectin y'all So you bound to fall, somebody yell "timber!" You fuckin with the down South King, call me Simba And remember, who the fuck ya talkin to Or you'll see the pearly gates you'll be walkin through, fool
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