| Ball player, think like a co-star |
| You are not a baller, you a flodger with a car note |
| Gucci got more drop tops- Mixtrap.com |
| Think I need to carpool, 'cause my cars are too hot |
| If I had a girl, I would buy my girl an anklet |
| But, since I don’t, think I’ll buy myself a bracelet |
| Just bought a Jacob, bought myself a |
| Gave the J’s to Juice, now Juice flexin' diamonds |
| When I was a quarter- Mixtraps.com, missalignment |
| Told you what I wanted and you bought me every diamond |
| Used to be my woman, call you Lucy Franklins |
| Half an ounce of kush, work ya lips and fingers |
| No one’s in my bank, but Gucci Mane a banker |
| Smokin' like a chimney 'cause I’m really not a dranker |
| Tell me what’s the billy, silly, don’t I look real pretty, baby |
| Homie got his chain on, but his diamonds sayin' nothin' |
| What you doin' homie, I ain’t really doin' nothin' |
| Just bought a Vega at the racetrack, bettin' that crazy money |
| Never had a job, so I call myself the lazy cat |
| Gucci Mane, you’re crazy, yeah, bought myself a crazy Jag |
| Paper bag, paper tag, just to make a hater mad |
| If you wanna gamble with me, you gotta bring a hundred, cash |
| Louis bag, full of cash, Gucci bag, full of kush |
| Prada bag, poppin' tags, bought my bitch a juicy tag |
| And she got a juicy ass, and she call me daddy 'cause I treat her like my |
| daughter, yeah, I spoil her, man |
| Seventy four O’s, smoke, cost me a hundred, crack |
| Hummer truck, mounted up, put together hundred bands |
| Benz cost me sixty bands, rims cost my ten grand |
| Dually truck, paper tags, sittin' on 'em grown man |
| Right wrist, eighty bands, left wrist, a hundred bands |
| Pinky ring, twenty grand, ask, it cost two-hundred grand |
| Necklace, three-hundred grand, new piece, a hundred grand |
| Next piece comin', I finna spend seven-hundred bands |
| I don’t give a damn if my album reached a hundred fans |
| Still got a hundred, gon' keep this shit a hunned, man |
| Still skrrt-skrrt like I’m cookin' with a hundred hands |
| If it don’t jump over-over, cook it 'til its over man |
| Gucci! |
| What it do, dude |
| What’s happenin' |
| I don’t respect y’all niggas out here man |
| You got your workers, catchin' em on the bus to the trap, man |
| Get the nigga a Charger or something, an Avalanche, man |
| Its Gucci Mane La Flare, exotic, shorty |
| Pull up from another hemisphere, ya hear me |
| Thirty on my pinky, hundred and fifty on my left, eighty on my right, |
| a half a million on my neck, that’s bout an M, cause |