Lloyd Banks - Who Shot Ya Freestyle lyrics

Don't talk sh** to the stars bro I'll have more n***as leanin' over your weight than a car show They bust you down like a Marlboro And i'm excited to see where your knee and ya arm go You don't want to know how much this cost n***a i'm ballin' my dick been through every color lip gloss Around here that snitchin' get n***as pissed off That n***a front in the club he gettin' hip tossed We ride around everybody in the bricks saw us And them record execs pull out a grip for us Yo what up? this is Big Snoop Dogg The Big Snoopy D-O- Double Gizzle For shizzle dizzle Tellin' you to get the S-W-A- tizzle SWAT motherf*ckers Don't talk sh** to the stars bro I'll have more n***as leanin' over your weight than a car show They bust you down like a Marlboro And i'm excited to see where your knee and ya arm go You don't want to know how much this cost n***a i'm ballin' my dick been through every color lip gloss Around here that snitchin' get n***as pissed off That n***a front in the club he gettin' hip tossed We ride around everybody in the bricks saw us And them record execs pull out a grip for us I'm the sh** boss And on top of that you can expect me to win like a New York Knick boss You actin' like you want to lay where your mom stay I'll put red dots on you like Kwame' I'm blowin' Bomb Bay Cause it always pays off to make ya important decisions the calm way My hood b**h'll get you set up god Cause her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard You can't even get a show Lloyds on his job Jet Black tints on the 'Voy and the 'Sage Take a look at this enormous garage If you listen you can hear the noise of manage sh** i'm royalty like Bin Laden You been lyin' I got Siamese Glocks You gon burn 'till the boy gets rid of ya You'll be a ghost dog like Forest Whitaker Whoever thought they'd be askin' for his signature And tourists visit ya For all this literature sh** we ain't the cats from the movies we overlooked I'll put a cast on your a** like a broken foot You can't teach me how to stunt n***a I wrote the book A gourmet maids on the payroll to cook And if i'm travelin' off land the boat is took Cruisin' slow so all the old folk can look These little n***as is so so, i'm so good I got the crowd in a choke hold in your hood Quarter poundin' a low low the pro should Ya sales movin' slow mo ya go wood You want to see me handcuffed in the slammer Lookin' that tough in the camera My suppliers married to a real Rasta All I got to do is hit her with the Kyllva**a No candles or chilled lobster Its a flat screen, a little BET Throw on a DVD Then its brain on my B-E-D- I pa** her off to my n***a