Testo The Cake - Lloyd Banks feat. 50 Cent
Testo della canzone The Cake (Lloyd Banks feat. 50 Cent), tratta dall'album Most Wanted: Hip Hop
[Intro: Lloyd Banks & (Sample)
Money, money, money, cake
(Where the cake, nigga?)
[Verse 1: Lloyd Banks & (Sample)
You know we don't play, we rap but we scrap
Buck got the shotgun, 50 got the Mac
Sparky got the sweeper, Donnie got the crack
You won't have another birthday (Cake) after that
'Cause Jayo got a temper and he don't know how to act
And I've been gone all winter
But now a nigga back to get the (Money, money, money, cake)
And you motherfuckers looking like steak
Food on the plate for the wolves, follow rules
Don't get moved by the tools, blood'll ooze on your shoes
Wait, fuck all the hate, you ain't riding in them 6's (Why?)
'Cause you spending all your (Cake) on them bitches
I need the bread more niggas need Christmas
Banks don't rap with a backpack, I'm in
It for the (Money, money, money, cake)
Bitch!
You heard Banks say it so you know I got the Mac
I pull up, pull out, spray hoes at your back
I don't give a fuck, it's going down like that
I done been through every hood, dead niggas don't rat
In the heart of a victim, murder is monumental
I don't complicate shit, kid, I keep it simple
My bullet wounds will tell you a story 'bout what I been through
Southside trauma, drama with the llamas
Fuck what they say, with killers it's usually about life
Politic with bonders, it's usually about white
I'm the poster child for violence, I'm the boy on the poster
When them shots start to ring out, I'm the boy with the toaster
Yeah, listen up, kicko, I hustle, I get dough
You fucking with a sicko, I spaz, let a clip go
Cannon out the rental, beam to your temple
I squeeze, blow your mental all over your front lobe
We ain't nothing sweet
The home of the homis, there's a body every week
Now I don't hear the sirens but they probably on the creep
Plotting to pull me over, plant the (Cake) in my Jeep
So I be skipping cities, seven states in a week
How the fuck a breather tell me I can't eat?
Show me the (Money, money, money, cake)
Nigga, slow down, pump your brakes
No mistakes 'cause them Jakes run the plates
Then you're headed upstate for rolling 'round with a steak
Niggas start up the beef and run straight to the cops
You a bitch ass nigga, the cup (Cake) of the block
And any nigga disrespect the clique getting shot
Round here niggas get found upside down
Over the (Money, money, money, cake)
Credits
Writer(s): Christopher Charles Lloyd, Curtis James Jackson, Hans-juergen Fritz, Hans Bathelt
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