Yeah
Uh-huh
The fuck was I thinking?
Drought 3, bitch
Yeah, let me light my see-through blunt
What you know 'bout it?
You dig?
Weezy the name, money's the game
Already

Hard body, motherfucker, got the heart of a killer
Young God in the building, 'bout to start a religion
'Bout to call Bin Laden up and order some missiles
Bring 'em straight to your block and go to war with you bitches
If you hit the head, then the rest fall in position
Shoot a nigga on his porch, and make him fall in his kitchen
Copped a big-boy Porsche with all the specifics
And I keep that torch, baby, call me "Olympics"
Red, white, blue pill, flip my skills like gymnasts
And never give a bitch money, blood, or kidneys
When the gun goes "Pow," I be at the finish
With my medal 'round my neck, autograph on my tennis
The land of the murder, dope, crack, and syringes
Pull up on you in the coupe, how fat is your engine?
Never talk to those that sat on them benches
Boy, I was in the game on fourth-and-inches
These niggas want the business, I'ma give these boys the business
See you fucking with the boy that tote toys before Christmas
Got all these hoes trippin', got all these hoes strippin'
And we ain't P$C, but them bitches know we're tippin'
I just bought a pint and ain't none of y'all sippin'
Make my friends buy they own, fuck, I'm tired of being friendly
Ain't gotta lie just to try to be with me
Bitches up in heaven waiting that done died to be with me
I'm crazy for being Wayne, or is Wayne just crazy?
I been around, I'm still around, like them Geico cavemen
Hairpin trigger, no, I won't shave it
I spot hip-hop in the ocean, I'm gon' save it
The South is so dirty, bitch, you can't bathe it
Hollygrove, dog, and I feel like matin'
Baby girl, your pussy's lookin' so vacant
And it's "Fuck you" and "Fuck Georgia Bush," not Macon
Fuck waist-deep, I'm in over my head
But it's cool, I'ma make it, I'm good like Meagan
Your girl wants me to come 'round her like Reagan
Your boyfriend is softer than the carton the eggs in
I don't fear nothing but God and weddings
At the top of my paper like I'm startin' a heading
My homie, Santana, yeah, that's my ace
But you may know us as "I Can't Feel My Face"

Yeah
Weezy, bitch
Give a fuck about you at all
I'm paid
Been that way for a long time
Looks like I'ma die like that
'Cause if I ain't, I'ma just die, haha

Yeah, see, they don't know where I came from
But they know where I'm going
And I'ma tell you just how the top feels when I'm on
In the game, I'm no cheetah, I'm a tiger, I'm a cougar
I'm a panther, I'm a Bengal, Ochocinco
I'm illy, shirt softer than Gillie
In a pair of Gucci flops, feeling freer than Willie
When them niggas left I, it got a little bit chilly
But I just let it burn like the end of the Philly, Weezy

Copyright: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Writer(s): Jeff Page, Joe Cooley, Rodney Oliver