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50 cent – banks victory lyrics


[50 cent]
yo, yo we can’t stay alive forever
so if sh-t hit the fan then we might as well die together
i’m high as ever, more hoes and more cheddar
g-unit move around wit them pounds and berreta’s
yea f-ggot, if i want it i’m gon’ have it
regardless if it’s handed to me or i gotta grab it
don’t make a -ss outta yaself tryin to stop me
i’m c-cky, raps rocky, n-gg- you sloppy
you know that i’m, 8 levels above you n-gg-
i’ll club you n-gg-, i never heard of you n-gg-, it’s ugly n-gg-
i’m the wrong one to provoke
you rattin on n-gg-s is only gon’ leave you smoked
so the only thing left now is toast for these cowrads
i got no friends, f-ck most of these cowards
they pop sh-t ’till we start approaching these cowards
while we lay around dollars, they lay around flowers

[lloyd banks]
i got a intergangstress who argue and steams wit reefer
and who flip when i call a b-tch like she queen latifah
not all the vehicle’s is long enough to stash the streetsweeper
this sh-t can get uglier than the master p sneaker
we slidin through the ruckus, wit prada on the chuckus
soon as spring break ho’s home from college wanna f-ck us
i ain’t here to drop knowledge on you suckas
i’ll sick rottweiler’s on you f-ckas, cops followin to cuff us
top dollars to discuss this, whole lotta zeros
when it comes to paper i blow a soul outta aero
i’ma break before i lay floor berry
besides, every rapper ain’t a star, n-gg- plad ain’t bulbary
you can’t tame lloyd, smokin by the big screen
you changin the channel looks like i’m playin the game boy
i know the rocks botherin ya vision
but reach and i’ll put a dot on ya head like it’s part of yo religion
why party wit a pigeon?
i’m blowin a 10 ’cause bush handin flyers for a party in a prison
i’m in the gucci vest wit the green and red straps
i’m the last rapper to scare n-gg-s since craig mack
now every morning’s a fast start
and there aint problem gettin dressed ’cause my closet got more aisles than pathmark
run, move startin to raid
and leave wit 12 sh-lls in ya mouth like a carton of eggs
i’m the young pimp pardon my age
i don’t got long hair but if i did she be partin my braids
we just find out what club they at
take ’em wit us, and run a train on ’em like a subway mat
yer advance is a grey acura
these record labels got most artists gettin f-cked like the gay rappa’
i go to college on a tour
i’m goin down in history n-gg-, next to wallace and shakur
i keep ya ammo clean, tec’s polished in the drawer
camera’s by the hamper that mine into the floor
by now, you probably heard of me
fresh outta surgery, flashy as a f-ck, you gon’ have to murder me
burglary, were leavin wit cha nike’s burgandy, white t, burgandy
you match now, back down
n-gg-s love to hate you, but love you when you disappear
catch me on the boat wit weed smoke and fishing gear
heavy when i toke, c notes from different years
besly in the robe, re-motes for liftin chairs
we ain’t rich, but we be glad to sn-tch ya
i send cars to your crib like i’m a cab dispatcha
you better off wit ya stupid guys, lookin for a coupe to drive
you ain’t gettin nuttin but ya french fries supersized
it’s a d-mn shame y’all still local
i’m in a million dollar studio layin my vocals

[50 cent]
still in the projects n-gg-, you ain’t goin nowhere
you gon’ f-ckin be there for the rest of yo m-th-f-ckin life
and yo momma said, i’m supposed to tell you somethin…
to encourage you, somethin positive
aight well i ain’t gon’ lie to you m-th-f-cka, he ain’t goin nowhere
get yaself a beer, get on the f-ckin curb
f-ckin dirtbag