Click Clack

(album: Playtime Is Over - 2007)

A lot of rap niggas be trynna play hard
I was told only reach for the heat if you (bang)
So when I lift the shirt, that's the end of discussion
Click clack motherfuckers, I ain't trynna hear that

They call me Nicolas, style defined as ridiculous
I beg your pardon, meet me at the Garden
Number one draft, I'm New York's pick and
I don't lose like them dudes, on the New York Knicks
(Check it), I'm overseas, rocking hella capris – I'm in the
West Indies, eating delicacies – I tell 'em
They want Kane like Erica? Please
Brother your money young, like that nigga Jeezy
These broke rappers, always rapping 'bout a pink truck
I'm only happy, when I'm hopping out the Brinks truck
And I don't need a sixteen, I got a sentence
I goes in on a fucker, like an entrance
These old bitches, better change they dentures
When I get in the game, they gon' play the benches
Fuck your friendship, pay attention
Bitch get at me? I'mma pay my henchmen

A lot of rap niggas be trynna play hard
I was told only reach for the heat if you (bang)
So when I lift the shirt, that's the end of discussion
Click clack motherfuckers, I ain't trynna hear that

They call me Maraj, fuck you, and fuck your
Squad, head bitch in charge, I ain't talking 'bout the Taj
I'm on the other line, I ain't talking 'bout call waiting
I'm VIP lil' mama, I just walk straight in
Lil' Dolce & Gabbana got this broad hating
That's why I pop up in the Porsche, with the top vacant
Mami stop faking, talking 'bout, what?
You got, you ain't got nothing, and you're not caking
You're not my taste, get out of my face
I play the top, like eight friends on your MySpace
Stay in a child's place, check the timing
I rock bitches, like they throwing up the diamonds
(It's the Roc!) You on a flight, I be baking on islands
Mami, your accent sounds faker than Dylan
Murder 'dem, murder 'dem
Fuck a competition, already murdered them

A lot of rap niggas be trynna play hard
I was told only reach for the heat if you (bang)
So when I lift the shirt, that's the end of discussion
Click clack motherfuckers, I ain't trynna hear that

They call me Nicki M, hard to find me in a sticky Benz
I play the club with a thug, and some pretty friends (What up!?)
And if they ain't got the gat, they got the knife on (Yes sir!)
You're too wack, to get up on one of my songs (Whoop!)
You got a deal, 'cause you was giving up the coochie, prolly (Uhn!)
But I'll arrange one hit, like "Oochie Wally" (Uhn!)
(Gone 'til November) And you'll be gone 'til November, like Wyclef ("You'll be gone, 'til November")
I hold weight and I ain't talking 'bout biceps
I rep Queens like a crown, when I'm in the
Town, ask Yung Joc, "It's Going Down" (Yes!)
Kisses to my bitches, and my niggas, get a pound
June, turn me up, (Mic check!) How I sound?
Bitches don't know the half, like they flunked that math
Give a fuck about a bitch, and the clique she with
Unless, you doing them numbers, like arithmetic
Young Nick, holla back and turn up my shit

A lot of rap niggas be trynna play hard
I was told only reach for the heat if you (bang)
So when I lift the shirt, that's the end of discussion
Click clack motherfuckers, I ain't trynna hear that