(feat. Floyd Mayweather)
[Floyd Mayweather speaks]
[Ludacris:]
Back up on dat ass,
Back to put rappers on one knee like they bout to run 100 meter dash,
Bow down to greatness, before I get pissed and run up in the stands like the Indiana Pacers,
Covered all my bases, straight, no chasers,
Diamonds on my chain look like my neck`s full of glacers,
Titanic flow, Titanic dough, women on my nuts like "Where da Titanic go?"
I been scourin` da earth, makin` my fans catch da holy ghost at my shows like ya grandma at church,
And the fat lady singin`, it`s ova for you rappers,
Can`t none of ya`ll bust your just sacs full of semen,
And I got da women screamin`, and they could catch my balls on any given sunday like my name`s Willy Beaman,
Or LL Cool, so if ya boyfriend thinks your loyal to his ass then he`s a motherfuckin fool,
Got jewels on my pinky, jewels on my wrist
Iconic status and his name is Ludacris,
Bitch please, you messin with some real O.G`s,
With million dolla whips dat I ship from overseas,
Got a pocket full of G`z, and the inconvenient truth is that the ozone is bad cause I been smokin` all da trees,
The globe is warmin` up when we fire up the blunt,
And put it in the air like Evil Knievel stunts,
Wat you want from me? I got pistols for da haters,
Ya fam will be in black like the playin` for da Raiders,
And ya music isn`t favored, and DJ`s they neva bring it back like when you go and borrow somethin` from ya neighbor,
Like a cup full of sugar, a rope full of salt,
The name on my car insurance is YO fuckIN FAULT,
And if you sittin on chrome, I`ll call up my boys and have you stripped of ya medals like Marion Jones, nigga...
[Floyd Mayweather speaks]
[Ludacris:]
Back up on da scene, back to put a nail in these rappers` coffins I got the hammer in my jeans,
Call me Mr.Fixit, barrel hotter than a fresh batch of home-made buttermilk biscuits,
A-tisket, a-tasket, a custom-made casket,
Luda leaves them trouters stretched out like gymnastics,
And acrobatics I`m superstar status, the mouth of the South like gangsta grillz you bastard,
The international traveler, and I may not be much to you but I`m the sh*t out in Africa,
So put ya fist up, even the statue of liberty lit a flame for the way that I lit my wrist up,
You can`t compete with me, I got `em stuck like I made a thousand rappers put shackles on they feet with me,
And then I broke free, I`ll let `em loose when Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston become drug-free,
I`m the baddest mother shut it like Shaft was, leavin` rappers with headaches like bad drugs,
They shoulda warned ya, you got defeated by the heat but, eh, we`ll just say we Alonzo Mourn`d ya,
So Cater coroner, I`ll show up to yo funeral with some gators like I`m fresh outta Florida,
Call me the swamp thing, ya`ll headed in the wrong direction like you hit the subway and caught the wrong train,
So don`t f**k with it, I`m sendin` lyrical bullets right at ya dome f**k niggaz betta duck with it,
Or else you stuck with it,
You`ll get stalked so bad you`ll leava da scene thinkin eight Young Buck`s did it,
But not in Cashville, you lost yo feelin` like comin down off X chasin` effects of yo last pill,
You fuckin Daffy Dill, You`s a Daffy Duck,
And I`m the undefeated champ, ya`ll niggas suck!
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