[Intro - Excerpt from Paid in Full]
A n***a like me man, I love the game, I love the hustle man
I be feeling like one of them ball player n***as you know
Like Bird, Magic or something
Yeah you know a n***a got dough
A n***a can leave the league
But if I leave… the fans still gone love me man?
I get love out here in harlem man I done sold coke on these streets man hash weed, h**ne
As long as n***as is feeling it
A n***a like me could hustle it
[Verse 1 - Conway]
The yak in my cup, the MAC is tucked, what
I'm sticky yo back the f** up
I keep the blinky since
Them n***as clapped my truck up
The wax had me gagging after one puff
I remember bagging drums up
Now it's a half of one stuffed in the trunk
I stack my funds up
Call my savage and have his gun bust
Then they find you wrapped in plastic a dumptruck
f**, only [?]
I pull up with a b**h, they think it was Rita Ora
My lil' headbuster keep his tool ringing off
Got two bodies this summer
He said he needs some more
Highest grade marijuana
Directly from the farmer
My enemies is all goners
Guess it was karma
Trauma, four keys in your baby mom's Elantra
Big a** gun like something out of Contra
Don't make me spray a n***a
Bodies drop if I ok it n***a
You know how I play it n***a
Red October Ye' a n***a
Loud moving slow I had to yay it n***a
Still ill when I write it
When they don't name me top five I feel slighted
n***as be talking but when I'm around they real quiet
You can pray to jesus all you want
You still dying, motherf**er
[Verse 2 - Westside Gunn]
Ayo, this the second coming of christ
[?] like a flight
Check your MAC on sight
All red Geiger's on, stomp you to d**h
Yeah you got designers but you rocking it left
Need a new plug, prices getting outrageous
Shot the thirty off, my n***a wasn't even aiming
Pink lemonade Porsche Cayman
Low Margiela's looking like a n***a painting
Patience a virtue, my yard kids will murk you
Ink on the Balmain blazer and the shirt too
Shotgun like painting
The flygod but the all red Yeezy boot's satan
Eyes out, gloves on weighing
Cameras on [?] like Paul Wall
Life's so great they say a n***a sold his soul
Praying Rex get us a Super Bowl
Bust out the gate
The wrist froze from flipping O's
[Verse 3 - Roc Marciano]
You know the rules
Let the j**els go smooth
They never should have
Sold you dudes Pro Tools
These old dudes let the hoes choose
n***a your shoes is overused
I hear the fat lady singing
That b**h can hold a tune
It's been said I'm god in the flesh
I had to show and prove
My sneakers is literally from Italy
Leaned on the cane
Thought it was muscular dystrophy
A hundred shots your Hilfiger look like a frica**ee
Who you think you Mr. T? Mitch Green?
Or the new Richard Roundtree? (Please)
You found in Queens
With your sh** twisted like it was ground beef
A few n***as in town grieved
Variegated paint on the i8
Obviously you see that I ate
Don't think I'm like these other rap n***as
Cos I ain't
You got pie on your face
Denim and supply is for flyweights
You can't buy taste, we looking at you sideways