70 Bars

Lyrics

[Intro: Lloyd Banks] The name's Banks (Uh) The Boy Wonder, man (Uh-huh) Stack in a rubber band (Yeah) Gat in the other hand [Verse 1: Lloyd Banks] Uh, yeah, 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!