70 Bars lyrics

by

50 Cent


[Intro: Lloyd Banks]
The name's Banks; the Boy-Wonder Man
Stack in a rubberband; gat in the other hand

[Verse 1: Lloyd Banks]
These little n*ggas don't move me; go watch a movie
I'm too smooth; white Prada shoes with the Dooey
I spin your f*ckin' neck when I speed the through; the ceilin' is see-through
Oh, you top-billin'? Well, me too
You might as well give your money to me, shorty
Can't dance in the strip club when you're forty
Come here; I'll show you how to get, it if you with it
If you let me, I can teach you how to take it to the top
A bottle of Cris later, you'll be naked in the spot
Gassed up from the conversation in the drop
It won't be gifts or vacations to the trops
Just hard-di*k bubble gum, and steak up in the pot
I got a brand new semi out the box
Just in case a n*gga think he smooth enough to sneak in
Leave you one eye shorter from the slaughter
And I'll be on the yacht 'round water out in Florida
f*ck the talkin', what's up? Your hammers in the truck, you butt, so chill
Or I'mma have to f*ck, you up, for real
Cristal bottle in your grill; ew
It'll be a ground full of glass, teeth, and blood spill
They all know I'm a threat hoppin' out the Lex
I got a b*tch for every letter in the alphabet
Like Aron and Brandy, Carrie and Donna
Erica and Felicia, I nicknamed her "Gabbana"
Light-skinned Heather, I met her around the way
And there's a few names that I ain't supposed to say
So I'mma skip to J, cause Jasmine and Jennifer
Jaw-bonin' Jessica runs when I message her
They all know when it come to the hoes
I get 'em down to they underclothes, in them bungalows
Nah, I don't need an umbrella, the car come with those
To get in one of those, you need a hundred shows
I'm all summer-froze, so the gun exposed
I'll gun butt ya f*cker, here's a bloody nose
Yeah, that was yo' b*tch, but the dummy chose
Yeah, I'm grimy as f*ck, you got to love it, though
Shorty caught feelings after I stroked her, so what?
Take a picture, write a book, call Oprah; blow up
You'll find a ice-pick in a flow
In a Coke-colored coupe, white whip in the snow
Me and the bread bandin' like a pimp and a ho
Like a smoker on the pipe, like the coca on the flight
I don't continue nothin', I'mma stroke her on the night
On the sofa or the floor, whore chokin' off the mic
Like, "Banks, I don't usually do"; well they usually do
And they all learn to like it, you'll get used to it, too
n*ggas starin' at my chain, cause it used to be blue
Man, I ain't changed like you; deuce-deuce in the shoe
I'm on Kush, cranberry juice, Goose, and I'm through
Then it's back to the mansion to do what I do
I'm back n*gga; this is part two: The Hunger For More Money
I'm right at your door, dummy
Kush pop, bottoms up; n*gga I'm by the buck
Don't look at the Ferrari, you can't even buy the truck
That boy fresh out the hood, and he hot as f*ck
On the hunt for the cheese, keep your Ricotta tucked
They on that body sh*t, right in the lobby sh*t
Run up in my yard, I'm runnin' out with the shotty sh*t
Family members identifyin' the body sh*t
Cause it been so long, that John Gotti sh*t
I'm in the two-zero-zero Maserati whip
Concrete-colored McLaren; it's a hobby, sh*t!
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z #
Copyright © 2012 - 2021 BeeLyrics.Net