Оригинален текст
Can I do my thang??
*(Yukmouth)*
Speak on it.
*(Brownstone)*
Oh, oh, ohhh.
Oh, oh, ohh, hey.
Verse 1 *(Yukmouth)*
Uh.
be havin the muth* fkin blues,
like 5-0-5's
I won't lie,
homicide,
gram will cry,
pray for me that I won't die,
suicide,
I won't try,
bullets fly,
drive-by,
don't let it slide, do or die,
you an I, slide by,
catch them off my side,
wit nothin to hide body die rot,
on they porch,
when I expectin some sort of drive-by,
type retaliation,
under styles I lace, MOBBulation,
lets begin breakin down the situation,
when, the end of our frustration,
so while we racin down the block, wit a thirty-eight, an glock,
the cops is waitin to umm,
accelerate on yo vehicle,
run down yo vehicle,
even if they have to gun down yo vehicle,
nigg*, up in these high-speedaz,
police they be the Rosco Bico train,
swervin in an outta lanes,
runnin from O-H-A,
what they throw away,
eh, though, eh, way,
pistol,
every muth* fka wanna peep.
Chorus x2 *(Brownstone & Yukmouth)*
Millionaire!
Dreams of big millions play.
Ever seen a sad millionaire?
I thought that money make us happy.
Verse 2 *(Yukmouth)*
What if I was a millionaire,
huh,
a major playa on the block,
that a mac daddy, drivin a black Caddy couldn't stop,
hella strap happy,
cuz slangin all my rocks,
point yo gats at me,
I don't know where uzis to yo knot,
fo fkin wit the big shot,
I was juss flat droppin g bannos on the ground,
be down,
that's one of my s**t, an get shot,
only the baddest girls jock,
get chosen,
global shouts,
for girls out there who be voguin,
on the collar of poppa,
brand new hundred dolla billz, an a choppa,
where strapped fo real, like Chubacca,
who got the gonga,
cuz I be high like phone doctor,
spark on vodka,
eatin lobster, bumpin Frank Sinatra,
Smoke-A-Lot be the MOBBsta, who shot ya,
like Vinny Blanca,
come back in the end juss to haunt ya,
plus I twist a Benz like Big Poppa,
what's the big proper use,
go get yo bread an do what ya gots to be a,
millionaire playa.
Chorus x2
Verse 3 *(Yukmouth)*
Uh.
You juss created a monsta,
fk a type, I smoke gonga,
in the Bahammas,
fkin yo baby mama,
doggystyle (whoo,wee!)
two wow, you wow,
doubt man,
who wow "Bout it, Bout it",
be claimin they be the Ice Cream Man,
but I doubt it, doubt it,
be rowdy,
hit the paper chasin clout it,
sky up out the ugly four day la-la-by yo Cuttie like a ballot,
smokin blunts, an crunchin weed, sex,
fresh outta drug rehabs,
spend two g's at every function I be at,
believe that, b*tch!!
Ya mind is Smoke-A-Lot,
grab girls by the throat-a-lot,
that's what ya told the cops,
I hold the glock,
aim it an fire,
retire another nigg*,
nameless,
game is fo hire,
desire chariots fire,
light as I'm a tuck her,
we're so called "potnaz", fk 'em,
an dust em off wit a choppa, I can't rush 'em,
gotta bust 'em,
too skinny I can't trust 'em,
an when the muth* fkaz got meal tickets you might have to love 'em,
an that's fo real.
nigg*.
Chorus x5
*(Yukmouth talking during chorus)*
Have all this fkin money, an still ain't happy. nigg*, still got
problems wit stress, muth* fkaz juss think you got it made, they try
to rob you an s**t, yo own potnaz in the hood juss wanna love you. fck
money, I wish I didn't have it, cuz when I didn't have it it was all
good, loved me when I was juss drinkin brew an s**t at the store.
Now ya got money everybody wanna kill me, nigg*, ya own relatives wanna
do you, skanless boy, this is Nine Skrillion, make a million bucks.
Millionaire.