Skyscrapers (feat. Method Man & Smitty)

Money, money, money

Duffle bag on the floor (yes), blowin' fast, let it go (yes)

Raise a glass for the coast (coast), we the last of the GOATs

Niggas funny when they broke (what?), say they love me when they don't (no)

With the C's and the B's, I get money with 'em both (what up, though?)

Floor seats, fuck the bleachers, back to breathin' that ether (ooh)

Ridin' 'round with a feature (ah), nigga, this the Mona Lisa

Fuck bein' lyrical, I'm a walkin' miracle

Vultures in my cereal, music is my vehicle, negro spiritual

Slidin' down Imperial, nigga, this a different texture (ooh)

Homie, I ain't with the extras, full clip for the hecklers (what, what?)

In the hood, I'm a pharaoh, blue rag my apparel (yeah)

Party at the hotel (yeah), never hear a ho tell (shh)

I'm the shit if I do say, gin and juice over D'USSÉ (ooh)

Strippers jumpin' outta Snoop cake (ooh), lil' nigga, how the truth taste?

In the meanwhile, I'm diggin' through these weed piles

Mama, look at me now (look at me)

Martha on speed dial (ay)

Verified in the streets, rap sheet, got a lotta fans

Energy, Long Beach, see through 'em like a hologram

Chasin' a bill, back in the field, got my conceal, call it Lucille

Keepin' it trill on Cypress Hill, you gotta be real (whoop, whoop)

This shit here built to last, had to break the hourglass

Slow money come fast, it's just a doggy bag

Now go 'head and get mad, never been a kiss-ass

Them woke me out my slumber, 'bout to do numbers on your bitch ass

To all my young Black entrepreneurs, stack paper

Skyscrapers, get you some motherfuckin' haters

And my young rap entrepreneurs, reach your goals

Fuck them hos, through the concrete grew a rose

Ain't tell you that the world was yours? Stack your paper

Skyscrapers, fuck all you motherfuckin' haters

All my young rich entrepreneurs, keep your vision

Fuck your system, turn that cap into capitalism

John Wilkes in the booth, I'm a hunnid rope when I shoot

So tailor-made in my suit, I'm the Michael J of my group

This Johnny Blaze and that's Snoop, and that's Dr. Dre in the coupe

He get the queue, I don't Bishop, ain't no O.J. in this juice

Another day, 'nother pick up, but I ain't playin' no hoops

With this inner circle, I figured I'd try and stay in the loops

Stick to the script, this a stick up, but I'ma stick to the truth

Black thought with a Black fist up, like I'ma stick to my roots

I'm hot, boss, don't slip, in New York, I'm drippin' with hot sauce

And I'm feelin' real Gucci, that means I'm drippin' on knock-offs

Party just like a rockstar and I'm sippin' a Rockstar

Your woman think I'm crack and I know I'm gettin' my rocks off

Most these rappers is fiends, I mean, they know where the rocks are

It's like they hit the rock and hit rock-bottom to rock hard

But me and Boss Dogg keep a Roscoe like Boss Hogg

My cause? Just because, because you lost, you a lost cause

Go 'head and get bad, I'ma go 'head and get cash

And I don't get sleep, I get big bags, you big mad