Pimp C - The Game Belongs To Me lyrics

[Hook: Pimp C] I got Bobby by the pound, Whitney by the key DJ Screw by the gallon, b**h the game belong to me [Verse 1: Pimp C] I got money on my beeper, dead trees on my phone They call me Mick Jagger cause I roll a lot of stones It's a whole lot of clones but only one Sweet Jones Turnin who*es to carnivores, they just can't leave my meat alone It's been a long time since I hustled on the block But every corner that I hit, I left it screwed up and chopped Marooned up and dropped, like my Biarritz on top Let the motherf**er bleed until it drip and let it drop I'm still that young boy that had a pocket full of stones But now I'm sick and simply rich, grippin wood and flippin chrome I got Bobby by the pound, Whitney by the key DJ Screw by the gallon, b**h the game belong to me [Hook] [Verse 2: Bun B] Man I pull up in your city and get my Bush on Lay down the competition, take their cash crops, and get my push on Moved up to a Bentley remote from a Lexus key All because we cornered the market on that Texas tea And we don't bar no plexes, we way bigger than other men though The diamond deuces on tinted windows, we in the wind yo Whichever way the wind blow (wind blow), that's the corner we been Joe Don't know where you been bro, but it's no quiz to me, you win though When it's ten fo', good, but in my Styrofoam good and muddy We block bleeders (what?), leavin your neighborhoods good and bloody We grippin that woodler, bud it (damn), sit back and scope it Pay attention to Prince and pushin everything about to pump it [Hook] [Verse 3: Pimp C] Uh! I done smashed up my Flying Spur, it wasn't sh** I just parked it in the gra** and brought some brand new sh** A Phantom Rolls Royce, 24's with the bump I ain't trippin about the seat, I got them woofers in my trunk Cut in my swisher, codeine on my whiskers f**in with that Smoke D, Bundy, and that Vicious UGK Records, it's an institution Know a lot of n***as livin off of prostitution Pimpin ain't dead, it just moved to the web b**h ain't gotta hit the track, ain't gotta give no tricks no head Ain't got to give no tricks no p**y, just cameras and screens Easiest money you can get, it's the American Dream b**h! [Verse 4: Bun B] Man I'm a middle finger figure, on a million dollar mission Poppin like Orville Redenbacher, with a whippin in the kitchen Pitching Yayo like Dontrelle Willis, we the trillest On the mound, I'm holdin that whole South down, I know you feel us We the realest walkin the planet, can't stand it Pa** away, wanna fight us Start to swingin, wanna k** us Blast away, wanna stab us Get to stickin but make sure you cut us deep Cause I betcha we comin back a couple hundred brothers deep Pimp and Bun, we run the streets, which streets? Man, pick your hood Don't matter, we represented, cross us we gon' get you good Them Down South veterans, ain't nobody better than Gonna tell your next of kin or your brethren, let us in cousin [Hook]