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Correct Murda Mami Lyrics
Lyrics
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Artists: R
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Rick Ross
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Correct Murda Mami
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Lyrics:
Yeah! Pussies don't get pussy Brooklyn (uh-huh) Kinda short, dark-skinned, she a fly lil' bitch Be up in all them clubs spillin Dom P and shit Know the boy stunt, Jonathan Kelsey clutch Yves Saint Laurent fronts on her bags to the pumps D's love her aura, Balenciago fedora Lame niggaz bore her, struttin like she Kimora She'll take a kilo and stuff it up in the coochie Quicker than Ron, stash it between her coochie (ha ha) Breeze through the hood, niggaz treat her like a O. G. First bitch in the hood, with the Bentley Coupe gt (yes) Brooklyn is the team, Alexander Mcqueen Bustin down a bird and balance it with a beam Five five, slanted eyes, bitch walk is mean Mahushi Ron bracelets and Armani jeans They're called skinny, my bitch is like a rasta with it Black car, red bottoms, only mobster in it It's like damn, bitch, niggaz lovin me now Oh-nine Bonnie & Clyde doin it now - whoa Murder murder, these bitches ain't never heard of Gettin money, gettin hurt up, impatient to leak them burners Aiyyo Ross, send them bitches to the boss The blood claat flyest bad bitch in New York Y'all hoes better bow the fuck down and pay homage I'm ten million sold and that's Soundscan knowledge And all y'all rat bitches sound garbage While me and Ross like the hood version of bombings Bars give me style like when you steppin in my The 38 special in my Chanel sock Now I got the llama and Ermet's dark Word to sly swifter fox who above me? Say hello in pumps, Nickelus Curt with that bomb So ladies raise your glass to this man song Money ain't a thing, just look at my pinkie rings So many numbers in the bank, shit could never be the same Tall four Velours, withdrawals by Michael Kors And I watch a pretty penny I'm talkin hundred or more My critique for 'leet, not for the cheap And my money in the street way longer than my receipt Dealin with the money, no (Monie) all (In The Middle) I'm dealin with opponents, they gettin riddled Box niggaz up, on the ropes Louis sneakers, Louis luggage, the colognes and soaks Smellin like money, my body tatted with hundreds Oh-nine Bonnie Clyde, gotta live with it like uh
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