Motherfuckin' Star (from "G-Unit Radio Part 4: No Peace Talks" mixtape)

Broke ass mothafucker
(Whooo!)

Motherfucker, take a look at the kid
Now take a look at the crib
No – take a look at the car
I'm a motherfucking star
It's kinda hard for me to practice, cause niggas ain't up to par
And my paper stretch longer than Abdul-Jabbar
I got a hit with a nina and the grib of a lobster
Bulletproof screen, and I'll gun a man with a chopper
Play me, you musta had a frying pan full of vodka
I rode a bike; now I land in a chopper
You should keep your man down if you got love for him
Before you see his ass flying off the roof like Nutso in Above the Rim
The kid is out for the gusto and I love to win
Driving the industry nutso; I'm a rub it in
You page me if I have a trial; every kid is spoiled
You smell that nigga?
I just shit it on you
My path's cluttered, so the gun goes with me
And the bullets are the size of Mutumbo's pinky
And they automatic which means it'll unload quickly
I hit these niggas with a drumroll 50
They make another song (go ahead)
Get a bitch pregnant; wrong
I don't even trust myself
I walk into the hotel with the rubber on
Then I'm gone
Designers think I'm funny style cause I ain't selling nobody else shit
I wear my own
The industry's phony – some mutherfucking rap homie
Gimme a cheque, a couple mil', and jet
See heavy smoking is a thing I do
That's why my weed supply can fill up the pouch on a kangaroo
We in the club with the daggers and the razors too
I'm cool as ice water; my earrings are laser blue
You should cop a new vest
Cause if I got a tattoo for every nigga that past, there won't be room left
And I'll be damned if I spend my afternoon stressed
When my sex partner is 5'9" with balloon breasts
Ghostwriting is a hobby kid
So if a nigga shit sound like I wrote it, I probably did (you know who you are)
And it ain't hard to tell you flopped on your last tune
Cause your dressing room is the size of my bathroom
If I'm at the dealer, I ain't browsing; I'm buying (uh-huh)
These rappers can't spend a hundred-thousand; they lying
Damn-near sold a hundred-thousand; you crying
I'll tell you what
Here's a Tec – shoot yo'self in the neck (BOW!)

Yeah
It's Lloyd Banks, nigga
G-Unit
Yayo
Come on, nigga

...which is crazy
At some point, I heard that someone robbed you of some of your jewelry
That's a false story. That's a...that's a story he made up