Lyrics

[Intro] Cardo on the beat! Mustard on tha beat, ho! [Verse 1: Royce The Choice] Hollywood, but it's northwest side-y Two-oh-six, like the number of bones in your body She bought a room for us, and I boned in the lobby If you hit the room, you would owe more than Gaddafi Eating first teriyaki, purple and brown Huaraches Sloppy toppy got me knock-kneed, Oxy Reynolds in my chai tea Copy... *chk!* Copy All these niggas effort do so much, I'm feeling like I'm not me Shit, fuck with the one-time none-time You subtracts, I let the racks plus-sign I'm never off, Garth Brooks hat Going pop with my white bitch; never look back, USC Pound of whole E in her book bag Parents had a trust fund for her, and I took that—know I need it Get your life 'fore the Grim Reaper get it When she goes bankrupt; then, he can get it Rocking Tim Witcher fitted, ac-quitted like a Cochran case Take my Pickens; then, I roll like a Stockton play This Christian was raised with Jews Wouldn't knock your bitch if she came in new, but she through [Chorus: Royce The Choice & Skeme] God, if I gotta go, for the funeral Could I get all my hoes in the front row? I need all my hoes in the front row All my hoes in the front row God, if I gotta go, at the funeral Could I get all my hoes in the front row? (Woo-woo! Woo-woo!) I need all my hoes in the front row (Yeah, yeah) All my hoes in the front row (Woo-woo!) Crazy [Verse 2: Skeme] Yuh! Young Duke, I stay with bad bitches I mean, bitches so bad, I use my crib to add attention (Right) Tried to told 'em this was pimpin', but these niggas never listen (Ha) Find her right off Manchester if your baby mama missing (Woo-woo!) Sucker-proof, nigga, I'm the truth, money through the roof (Yeah) Everything slow but paper off a seven of that juice (Hanh?) Riding coupes, leaning with your boo, this shit what I do (Whoa) I got old hundreds in my rap, shit ain't nothing new (Swag) I got Mustard on the bid-neat (Hah?), and your bitch on the fid-neet I keep stacks on tall, boy; your dollars all pygmy, ayy I'm ballin' on them, stay tryna defend me (Hanh?) Steady taking shots at niggas, man, but that shit don't offend me I just made another fifty through my email, nigga (Right) 'Fore this rap, we bought it whole and sold it retail, nigga (Right) Run your mouth about the kid—you like a female, nigga (Mhm) Your show money couldn't get my whip a detail, nigga, ayy (Woo-woo-woo-woo!) Young boys pulling Euros out the lot (Ayy) Man, I would take your girl, but I heard that bitch a bop (Bop) I got homies who got plots and got more homies that flock You wan' be rich out the hood? It's best you think about the box, ayy (Swag) Told this world that it's, "Fuck you, pay me!" For the last eight months, I rolled around in a Mercedes (Go 'n' tell 'em!) Talking Lexus, drop-head Caddys (Ayy) And bitches don't call me by my name, they call me... Pssh! Crooked! [Chorus: Royce The Choice] God, if I gotta go, for the funeral Could I get all my hoes in the front row? I need all my hoes in the front row All my hoes in the front row God, if I gotta go, at the funeral Could I get all my hoes in the front row? I need all my hoes in the front row All my hoes in the front row Crazy [Verse 3: Casey Veggies] Yeah! Ma, if I gotta go, just take life slow (Slow) They being haters online; that's a typo Young Veggies—I'm 'bout to give the game lipo (Whoa) She bust it open for the free; you getting priced, though I right wrongs, write songs, and we don't wife hoes Mustard on the beat—that's gon' make the function go (Going) I'm making money while I'm swagging, that's a W You the first to lose, coming in number two (yeah) Fuck you saying, ho? Let your man loose She leave me for a lame, she a lame too I'm out here getting to it, tryna keep my name true Mama use me in the shower like shampoo I know they told you I'm the boy, but I'm the man, too (Yeah) Could make a chick think, but I can make her dance, too My cuzzo took a L, and he know what's up I'm putting money on his books while I'm rolling up The best part about it: when I make you open up And then, I turn you 'round—back-shots be going up Young niggas run the city, I signed the declaration Alcohol in your system, she show that temptation We split them hoes up, I call it segregation She rock my shirt with panties; now, that's that product placement I rock them Puma suedes; we do them Pradas, too Wasn't rapping, I could be a fashion model, too [Chorus: Royce The Choice] God, if I gotta go, for the funeral Could I get all my hoes in the front row? I need all my hoes in the front row All my hoes in the front row God, if I gotta go, at the funeral Could I get all my hoes in the front row? I need all my hoes in the front row All my hoes in the front row Crazy