Is this muthafucka on?
Yeah bitch, go check your muthafuckin puss
Yeah, this's your homeboy Jay from the Romper Room Crew
We just lounge here in the Country Club right about now
You know what I'm sayin?
But now I'm gonna pass this to my young dog Mac Mall)
Passin Mac Mall the mic is like lighting a fuse
To a fat pipe bomb in a packed-ass room
Full of broke pimpetrators who be all tryin to dis
And them hairshop hoes playa-hatin for the dick
Now naw, I can't forget all them rumour-spreadin tricks
Chocolate nuts for your mouth when this dope album hits
Like a ??hoe?? out of China, ballers say I am a timer
Cause I was shootin game since I was a minor
Some of these rappers is liars, candy-coated and shit
Counterfeit-ass nigga, you can't blow up in this shit
I went from bein broke to havin fat accounts
From Ben Davis to wearin clothes you can't pronounce
From spittin lines to the ladies to bust the game to a bitch
First they hung up in my face, now I got em doin flips
So when my cuddies ask, "Mall, you stress offa what suckers say?"
I tell em, "Naw folks, it's all in the game"
I'm comin up on the playa tip
Your boy done bubbled, so be prepared for some major shit
Nigga, we comin up on the playa tip
(So shake them squares and start chosin on some playas, bitch)
Still got a Tec-9 in my cream creased Dockers
Hang with big timers, hustlers and bank-robbers
Players who be real about they money, you know
My dick get harder with every dollar, so who needs a hoe?
But sometime I like to get my tip ate
And if you ain't careful, it might be your bitch, mayn
V-Town hog, so I dog her like a doorway gap
I'm from the Crestside, partner, and fool, we do em like that
One-time, they be on me, cause my pockets is paroley
Sippin Hennessy not 40's, stayin far from the phoneys
Fuck a homie, nigga, but you can be my cuddy, though
You got a microphone, some money, or a sack to roll
In the Country Club Crest we can have a choke fest
Them six figure-digits got a young mac possessed
To the point, if it ain't about money, then it ain't mandatory
I keep my business and pleasure in different categories
Cause once they mix, then you trip, man fool, you lost control
Went broke behind a punk-ass hoe
Dome loaded, ripped off Hen'
Hell of g's addin up in my countin machine
I count them endless dollars before I have a dream
Of a muthafuckin heist or a gafflin scheme
P-89 Ruger with the red beam
Is the tool I use when I let off steam
I'm out here gettin famous, and you're just a fiend
That's why everytime you see me you be muggin me
Is your system on that morphine?
Now did your your lungs get sprung on the ice cream?
Now playa-hatin niggas, this rap's for y'all
You know I got a middle finger and a cap for y'all
As long as my name is young Mac-ass Mall
This game won't stop, won't pause, won't stall
Now nigga, get rich, read a bitch and kill a snitch
But make sure your actin's on the playa tip
On the playa tip
We live from the muthafuckin Country Club
You know what I'm sayin
Smokin the dank down to a nud
Ain't even trippin
We got bitches all out here
[Name] and shit, you know
Ant Banks all around this muthafucka burpin and fartin and shit
I don't know
We just live it, boy
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