70 Bars

(album: Mo Money In The Bank 4: Gang Green Season - 2006)

The name's Banks; the Boy-Wonder Man
Stack in a rubberband; gat in the other hand

These little niggas don't move me; go watch a movie
I'm too smooth; white Prada shoes with the Dooey
I spin your fucking neck when I speed the through; the ceiling 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-dick bubble gum, and steak up in the pot
I got a brand new semi out the box
Just in case a nigga 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
Fuck the talking, what's up? Your hammers in the truck, you butt, so chill
Or I'mma have to fuck, 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 hopping out the Lex
I got a bitch 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-boning 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 fucker, here's a bloody nose
Yeah, that was yo' bitch, but the dummy chose
Yeah, I'm grimy as fuck, 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 banding like a pimp and a ho
Like a smoker on the pipe, like the coca on the flight
I don't continue nothing, I'mma stroke her on the night
On the sofa or the floor, whore choking 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
Niggas staring 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 nigga; this is part two: The Hunger For More Money
I'm right at your door, dummy
Kush pop, bottoms up; nigga 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 fuck
On the hunt for the cheese, keep your Ricotta tucked
They on that body shit, right in the lobby shit
Run up in my yard, I'm running out with the shotty shit
Family members identifying the body shit
Cause it been so long, that John Gotti shit
I'm in the two-zero-zero Maserati whip
Concrete-colored McLaren; it's a hobby, shit!