Hook:]

Do this thing, this type of thing
Put a little money in this type of thing
I've got nothing to worry about

I've got nothing to worry about

[Verse 1]

Speak in the third person, he don't like it when he overlooked
Last year he was a cook, always been a crook
Handing money out, his palms are feeling itchy

You still a b!tch if you b!tch, b
He make the paper, never made he, seat laid back
In a five wagon, champagne, eat off rap

Twin angels made of porcelain
Prayer scripted on the black Steve Austin %#@!
Yo, you lost it, kid

Call my Peter Luger Junior, keen shop house in shorts
Island hopping, winter time
Pad Thai with the peanuts and the bitter lime

And shorty will take a %#@! on the chest of any stupid (*##$ that you consider fine
He one of a kind off the couch
He piss standing up

He read books and write poetry
And he strong as a Samoan
Straight from flushing and you know it, b!tch


[Verse 2:]
Negative, why always so negative?

If you have problems, why don't you go solve them?

[Hook:]

Do this thing, this type of thing
Put a little money in this type of thing
I've got nothing to worry about

I've got nothing to worry about