RICK ROSS lyrics : "luxury tax"
I think we got a problem
[Verse 1:Lil Wayne]
Big money in this b***h if you didn't knew.
Big business minus the business suit.
Even I look in the mirror like is it you,
And I say I must be the hottest if it isnt you.
Stay fresh from my top to my tennis shoes.
New coop, no top, big tennis shoes.
Never slipped, not even on the side of a swimming pool.
We don't get ridiculed
We get rid of fools.
They said I couldn't play football I was too small.
They say I couldn't play basketball I wasn't tall.
They say I couldn't play baseball at all.
And now everyday of my life I ball.
And they say you ain't great until someone assassinate,
And I feel like mlk
Yeah... I have a dream to be your worst nightmare,
And now meet the boss of the cartel.
[Verse 2:Rick Ross]
I'm a seven-nine satan, sitting on Lorenzzes.
And I seem really patient, picture the equation.
People taking pictures and they really getting flagrant.
Flaging down my spaceship, sergeant searching for a fragrance.
Yayo, Yayo, he wanna sniff the yayo, flying saucer on the hasa
In the casa just to lay-low.
Make more (money man) that the model for the mob,
Need a b******b my model, get a model for the job.
Go hard, no job, hustler, no prob, poster,
N****a what finger f**k you whole squad.
Forty around spending doe, flipping for my?
Luxury tax on them packs if you didn't know
Bought a new crib, n*****s feeling like I hid.
3.2 but I just did it for the kids.
More guns than a pawn shop,
Got my whole arm rocked.
Keep the 760 double parked in the wrong spot.
Yeah... You gotta pay for this,
I remember when I used to pray for this.
This, this is classic,
So this s**t you might never see again.
And we taxin, you don't want it n***a leave it then,
And we taxin, you don't want it n***a leave it then.
And we ain't trying to see the pen,
Like a needle in a hay stack we ain't trying to see the pen.
This is a luxury tax.
[Verse 3:Young Jeezy]
(I don't ask them baby I just tax em baby)
Yeah imagine this,
No imagine that.
Gave me my sack like, goodluck getting back.
I'm like how the f**k I'm gonna get outta there.
And if I'm not careful,
Leave em the same place they find him there.
And I'm a winner if I make it cross the finshline,
Putting food on the table like it's dinner time.
And this is what you call sterotyping about?
Can you tell me my your dog keep sniffing my car?
Huh? Got the audacity to call me a liar.
So what you got in your trunk?
Oh, just a spare tire.
You n****s talked blow,
While I sold mine.
Like a bad cramp, it's locking up in no time.
More time in the kitchen then I spent in the studio,
Gangstas paradise and I ain't talking about Coolio.
Can't lie, still addicted to the odor
Got a ice cold Pepsi,
But still thinking Coke-Cola.
I'm up early in the morning, and I'm dressed in black.
Hold on, every morning I get dressed in black.
While your half a*s looking at my pants sagging,
I'm getting money, and my swaging and black flagging.
Million dollor status, fully automatic.
Heavy on the henny and even harder on the women.
If it wasn't for reverend,
I probably would pimpin and s**t.
Pops, my papai, has already hear me.
Tied trapping, s**t sent me to prison,
Got mad and went to savage so homocide came to visit.
I smell gun powder,
So you got one hour to come up with every d**n dollar,
Or your dun-dada.
It cost a ball dogg,
Especially when the players on your team,
Consider you as the ball hog.
You treat me like Shaq,
And you Kobe but I didn't say you owe me n***a.
But act like you know me n***a.
Thanks to guestWriter(s): Jay Jenkins, David Oliver, Michael Gradney, Maurice Young, Kevin Crowe, Erik Ortiz, William Roberts, Dwayne Carter
Copyright: Warner-tamerlane Publishing Corp., Young Money Publishing Inc., Sony/ATV Songs LLC, Colione Cliff And Rook Publishing, Young Jeezy Music, 4 Blunts Lit At Once, Warner Chappell Inc., Emi Blackwood Music Inc., First N Gold Publishing, WB Music Corp.