Finale - Young Money

What it do, nigga

This your nigga T-Streets

Bang-bang in the building

This Young Money

First up, my nigga Gudda Gudda

Double G, blap, blap

They call me Young Gudda, I’m all about the dough still

And anybody in my way: roadkill

Everything my hands touch turn to gold

Money, knots, and jewels with no records sold, yeah

I’m manhandlin' rappers with no effort

So imagine what’ll happen when I start applyin' pressure

Guillotine flow, who ready to get severed, nigga?

In or out the booth, you could get leveled, nigga

Now we gonna take it to Harlem, Millzy

L’eggo!

Yo, we are Young Money (Yes)

Nigga, your camp chocha

It’s ‘bout to get real ugly—Omarosa

YM vultures, it ain’t a family doper

We done changed the way the game look—Sammy Sosa (Ha!)

This is life, this ain’t a job

The Audemars and Chapard just symbolize I go hard

Navy on Navy Camaro, I did it all for the Yankees (L'eggo)

Did it all for New York and this love, no need to thank me

Millz!

Now we gonna take to the West Coast

Tyga-Tyga

Ugh, fast money, I don’t slow dance

Young Money, motherfucker, 'til the world end

Money overweight, bitch—Roseanne

I don’t listen to these kids—grown man

Skinny nigga, dope though, ugh, Lohan

Lindsey, the white Benz, same color Mike skin

Make your soul spin when the ping loading

Au revoir, goodbye, now applaud

Yeah, now it’s child’s play, nigga

My lil' G, Lil' Chuckee

Young Money lil' G, battle juice in my blood

Jumpin' at the boy, man, you better have your bungee cord

Since Wayne took me off the leash, I ain’t lose a fight yet

Now, come drag your dog out the ring, how you love that?

Young with an attitude, watch how you talk to me

Keep playin' Freddy, boy, I’ll leak on your Elm Street

Trouble is what you want, dog, pain is what you don’t get

It’s Young Money to the bone gristle, you dig?

Now we got the hottest nigga on the internet

Lil' Twist Hefner, what it do?

Ugh!

Young Money, good night

And yeah, I’m gon' shine like a ultraviolet light

Lil' Twist gonna sell out like it’s opening tonight

Going for the fist nigga to write

You need a telescope sight to try to see me, I’m so far gone

Even though I’m going off, kids, I’m so far on

I got a house full of chicks like the Playboy home

Wrappin' up my lifestyle and I smashed this song, Twizzy

Yeah, next up, we got the best rapstress alive, Nicki Minaj

I’m in that cotton-pickin' Bent, put massa on the guts

White on white whips, Kunta Kinte on the clutch

You at the bottom of the pole—totem

Like Lamar Odom, I ball—scrotum

Flyer than a cricket so they call me «Nicki Jiminy»

And it’s going down like Santa in the chim-i-ney

You don’t ball, break your baby-back ribs

You need more assist than the handicapped kids

Oh, shit

And now, the beautiful Miss Shanell

Young Money, we’re rockstars

So fuck with your Magnum on

And hold on, we go long

You feel that, we get that

We in that, we run that

We bust back

We hit them and we see them comin' back for more

Back for more

Next up, my nigga Mack Maine

Stupid Mack-nupid, one hundred

Microwave family in the building, you can’t hold us

Me, Tez, and Wayne, we the three new moguls

Buffet around here, y’all boys scrape the plates

And we don’t eat up in our whips, but they got paper plates

Soon as we leave the club, damn, where the models go

One word I forgot to say on his album: «Hollygrove!»

This track is the finale, nah, this the genesis

Young Money murderers, we killin' shit, forever

Toronto

Drizzy

Get ‘em

Alright, I got this, you can never get this

I built it up from nothing, you would think I’m playin' Tetris

Thousand-dollar sweater on, but I don’t never sweat shit

Swear the beats they give me got a motherfuckin' death wish

Yeah, tell me, who controls kings?

I don’t follow rules, stupid old things

I’m flyin' through the city in a coupe with those wings

And my team deserves some motherfuckin' Super Bowl rings

Young Money

Wee-zy!

Wee-zy!

Wee-zy!

Wee-zy!

I’m so in this bitch, CEO in this bitch

Lil Weezy stand tall, tippy-toe in this bitch

Blood Gang, motherfucker, da-da-doe in this bitch

Make your girl get Barry Mani-low in this bitch

In the body of the world, money is the blood

And every day, I be back and forward to the blood bank

Ugh, makin' deposits 'til I fucking faint

New Orleans, nigga: How 'bout them fucking Saints?

It’s tight on our end, call that «Bubba Franks»

Matter-fact, it’s too tight—add a couple links

I’m the bar’s tender, you a woman drink

Yeah, it’s Young Money, but the money ain’t

Gudda tough, 'Nelly nice, Nick' nasty

Streets bad, Tyga ill, Drake magic

Millz Harlem, Chuck wild, Twist Dallas

And Mack Maine rap, sing and manage, ugh!

It’s Young Mula, baby!