They say that he's cocky, I'm feelin' myself//
But Money $tack$ is my name, so I'm dealin' wit wealth//
Smoke a lot of piff, slowly killin' myself//
But I'm livin' righteously, & God's willin' to help//
I'm just tryna sell records, not chill on the shelf//
Own the record label, start billing myself// (HaHa)
I could care less, I got friends, I need enemies//
Cuz competition makes profit, lets make plenty G's//
I need to cake off// Bread breaked off//
Or police'll have ya whole front yard taped off//
Then I take off// in a Grey Porshe//
Those tread marks on ya face you can't scrape off//
... light work
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