Rick Ross - Murda Mami lyrics
rate me[Intro]Yeah~! Pussies don't get pussyBrooklyn (uh-huh)[Rick Ross]Kinda short, dark-skinned, she a fly lil' bitchBe up in all them clubs spillin Dom P and shitKnow the boy stunt, Jonathan Kelsey clutchYves Saint Laurent fronts on her bags to the pumpsD's love her aura, Balenciago fedoraLame niggaz bore her, struttin like she KimoraShe'll take a kilo and stuff it up in the coochieQuicker than Ron{?}, stash it between her coochie (ha ha)Breeze through the hood, niggaz treat her like a O.G.First bitch in the hood, with the Bentley Coupe GT (yes)Brooklyn is the team, Alexander McQueenBustin down a bird and balance it with a beamFive five, slanted eyes, bitch walk is meanMahushi Ron bracelets and Armani jeansThey're called skinny, my bitch is like a rasta with itBlack car, red bottoms, only mobster in it[Chorus 2X: Foxy Brown]It's like damn, bitch, niggaz lovin me nowOh-nine Bonnie & Clyde doin it now - whoaMurder murder, these bitches ain't never heard ofGettin money, gettin hurt up, {?}impatient to leak them burners{?}[Foxy Brown]Aiyyo Ross, send them bitches to the bossThe blood claat flyest bad bitch in New YorkY'all hoes better bow the fuck down and pay homageI'm ten million sold and that's SoundScan knowledgeAnd all y'all rat bitches sound garbageWhile me and Ross like the hood version of bombingsBars give me style like when you steppin in my {?}The 38 special in my Chanel sockNow I got the llama and Ermet's darkWord to sly swifter fox {?} who above me?{?} say hello in pumps, Nickelus Curt with that bombSo ladies raise your glass to this man song[Chorus][Rick Ross]Money ain't a thing, just look at my pinkie ringsSo many numbers in the bank, shit could never be the sameTall four Velours, withdrawals by Michael KorsAnd I watch a pretty penny I'm talkin hundred or moreMy critique for 'leet, not for the cheapAnd my money in the street way longer than my receiptDealin with the money, no +Monie+ all +In The Middle+I'm dealin with {?} opponents, they gettin riddledBox niggaz up, on the ropesLouis sneakers, Louis luggage, the colognes and soaksSmellin like money, my body tatted with hundredsOh-nine Bonnie Clyde, gotta live with it like uh[Chorus]
