50 Cent - Banks Victory feat. Lloyd Banks (Lyrics)

[The Notorious B.I.G. (DJ Whoo Kid):]


One, two


Yo, check me out right here yo

[50 Cent:]

Yo, yo, we can't stay alive forever

So if shit hit the fan, then we might as well die together

I'm high as ever, more hoes and more cheddar

G-Unit move around with them pounds and Berettas

Yeah faggot, if I want it, I'm gon' have it

Regardless if it's handed to me, or I got to grab it

Don't make a ass out of yourself trying to stop me

I'm cocky, rap's Rocky, nigga you sloppy

You know that I'm, eight levels above you nigga

I'll club you nigga, I never heard of you nigga

Ugly nigga, I'm the wrong one to provoke

You ratting on niggas is only going to leave you smoked

So the only thing left now, is toasts for these cowards

I got no friends; fuck most of these cowards

They pop shit; 'till we start approaching these cowards

While we lay around dollars; they lay around flowers

[Lloyd Banks:]

I got a industry gangstress, that argues, and steams the reefer

And flip when I call her bitch, like she Queen Latifah

Now all the vehicles is long enough to stash the street sweeper

This shit can get uglier than the Master P sneaker

I'm sliding through the Rucker, with Prada on the chuckers

So the spring break hoes home from college want to fuck us

I ain't here to drop knowledge on you suckers

I sic Rottweilers on you fuckers, cops following to cuff us

Top dollars to discuss this, whole lot of zeros

When it come to paper, I blow the soul out a hero

I'ma break before I lay in the floor buried, besides

Every rapper ain't a star, and every plaid ain't Burberry

You can't tame Lloyd, we're smoking by the big screen

Changing the channel, looks like I'm playing the Game Boy

I know the watch bothering your vision

But reach, and I put a dot on your head

Like it's part of your religion

Why party with a pigeon? I'm blowing a ten

Because Bush handing out flyers, for a party in the prison

I'm in the Gucci vest, with the green and red straps

I'm the last rapper to scare niggas since Craig Mack

Now every morning's a fast start

But it ain't a problem getting dressed

Because my closet got more aisles than Pathmark

Run when we starting a raid

Or leave with twelve shells in your mouth, like a carton of eggs

I'm a young pimp, pardon my age

I don't got long hair, but if I did she'd be parting my braids

Niggas find out what club they at, take them with us

And run trains on them, like a subway map

Your advance is a grey Acura; see these record labels

Got most artists getting fucked like the gay rapper

I go to college on the tour

I'm going down in history nigga, next to Wallace and Shakur

Keep your ammo clean, TECs polished in the drawer

Camera's by the hampers that monitor the floor

By now, you probably heard of me, fresh out of surgery

Flashy as a fuck, you going to have to murder me

Burglary, I'm leaving with your Nikes burgundy

White tee burgundy, you match now, back down

Niggas love to hate you, but love you when you disappear

Catch me on a boat, with weed smoke and fishing gear

Heavy when I tote, C-notes from different years

Bezzy and the rope, remotes and lifting chairs

You ain't rich, but we glad to snatch ya

I send cars to your crib like I'm a cab dispatcher

You better off with the stupid guys, looking for a coupe to drive

You ain't getting nutting, but you french fries supersized

It's a damn shame y'all still local

I'm in a million dollar studio laying my vocals, nigga

[50 Cent:]

You still in the projects nigga, you ain't going nowhere

You going to be there for the rest of your motherfucking life

And your mama saying: I'm supposed to tell you something, to encourage you

Something positive, alright:

Well, I ain't going to lie to you motherfucker;

You ain't going nowhere

Get yourself a beer, and get on the fucking curb

Fucking dirtbag