Quarter million dollars all on my skin Tote this F&N like I got license Fuck stop signs and red lights, I don't do no stoppin' Jump off the tightrope, I'm tryna dive in Yeah, cook that shit up Quay Ain't been in the studio for like three or four weeks

And right out the other, It goes In One Ear, People talkin' shit but you know we'll never bother, They say that we ain't got the style, We ain't got the class, We ain't got the tunes that's goin to put us on the map And I'm a phony in disguise, Trying to

Dropped out, then I got rich (Yeah) Dropped out, then I put a Patek on my wrist (Brrr) Dropped out, for my teacher 'cause she ain't shit (Huh) Dropped out, spent a half a million on my whip (Yeah, ooh) Dropped out, and I ain't never had a job (Wow)

(I got a Public Pretender, tryin' to make me a winner) (Nigga please don't surrender, they'll have you for dinner) Now that's how this shit go! And I know you don't like me spittin' in your motherfuckin' face But ain't a motherfuckin' thing, you can do,

I done told you boy I'm a soldier boy I got no choice but to be a rider I approach you boy with the toaster boy Get to point blank range and fire I ain't tryin' to hear shit I'm supposed to be rich Motherfucker get in the way of my bread Then I'm goin'

We ain't got to prove shit to y'all so all y'all can lick the balls and keep walkin' Bitch keep talkin' Keep on poppin' off with them jaws because, we ain't stoppin' Keep on poppin' that shit you poppin' Cause we ain't stoppin' cause you ain't stoppin'

Rock bottom I got nothing left to hide I got nothing left but pride Nothing left to say Don't bring that shit to me I ain't your bitch, I ain't your boy I ain't no god damn motherfucking toy I'm not dead, I'm still alive You don't like it, you can go

Into the city where it all began You gotta move, you gotta move Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma Time you gotta move When you, you gonna move to the city? Aw, child, ain't it a pity? Sometimes it gets too shitty Come on and hit me You pack your bags

Outta proportion, outta proportion My choppa keep blowin' shit outta proportion Cook that shit up Quay It's Gucci (Evil) Hah (Genius) Fast coupe, haha (Nyoom) (Mr. Nice Guy, haha) If you ain't 'bout lettin' that choppa go, we ain't got none in common (No)

I'm just playing, but I'm saying Dreams of fucking one of these little rappers Barbie dreams R.I.P. to B.I.G Classic shit I'm looking for a nigga to give some babies A hand full of Weezy’s, a sprinkle of Dave East Man, I ain't got no type, like Jxmmi and