70 Bars - Lloyd Banks

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 fuckin' 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-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 talkin', 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 hoppin' 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-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 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 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

Niggas 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 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 runnin' out with the shotty shit

Family members identifyin' 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!