we got a problem houston, not marques houston or his little rapping side kick, we got a real m*th* f*ckin’ problem. and it’s only gonna be one of these songs, after that ima knock your m*th* f*ckin’ *ss out.
b*tch n*gg*s get put in the coffin with all that psychopath talking, you listening to the source and i ain’t from boston, i’m gang banging, wear g-6’s call em’ how i see em’, these n*gg*s is b*tches, and clue put this n*gg* on a song and now it’s g-unit, and i came to get it on, you ain’t hot, n*gg* you look warm, i’ll hog tie your *ss with g-unit shoes on, you had pump it up that was a koo song, you only sold 10 records n*gg* now move on, talking about you got ratchets and tools on when you was at the all-star game with no jewels on, i can’t believe i gave you dap, with the 45 on me i should of gave you that, pistol whipped you laid you flat, jump off buddens nah, disgrace to a yankee hat, and it’s time to state my biz, only n*gg* pushing rocket jersey is jason kidd, you a phony n*gg* i’ll erase your wig, have you running to the church like mason did.
buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens, buddens
you don’t know me fool, to diss me on dj clue, i don’t need no *ssistance to dig you a ditch, and any problem i got i just put my clip in, you fake like janet’s t*tty, one call 300 bloods in atlantic city, you bad boy then dance like diddy, i give celebrity beat downs, i bring the camera with me, on that mixtape sh*t you knew my man was 50, and i keep something chrome in them tanish d*ckeys, smoke n*gg*s like a gram of sticky, and i know my way to harlem i’ll take you to bransons with me, come to compton you’ll vanish quickly, i got n*gg*s in the hood that’ll kill you for a can of mickey’s, gangs of l.a. we never die, and we’ll let hollow tips fly at joe
i drive through the desert storm kick up dust, red and blue rags hanging out of pick up trucks, get banks on the phone, n*gg* hit young buck, tell em’ we got a problem with this dumb f*ck, you was just in the city of angels in the w lobby in the presence of gangsters, i’m the n*gg* that’ll beat you with the stainless and leave you alive so you can run and tell stain b*tch, i got n*gg*s in jersey that’ll hang you, im a los angeles king with new york rangers, and you lucky yayo got that beeper on his ankle, joe budden is a true definition of a w*nkster
this n*gg* try to act like he ain’t know what the f*ck he was doing, you knew what you was doing n*gg*, stop lying to the f*ckin’ people n*gg*, gone jump on a freestyle n*gg* on that fly sh*t, try to diss g-unit n*gg*, and im on the f*ckin’ first verse, you aint slick n*gg*, i caught that sh*t like a m*th* f*ckin’ greg maddox fast ball n*gg*, 50 get dre on the phone, see if that n*gg* remember what joe buddens second single was, ’cause i don’t. i took a survey in the hood n*gg*, went to the projects asked b*tches if they feeling your sh*t, they was like no, haha, i went to the hood asked n*gg*s if they was feeling your sh*t, they was like no, than i went to jersey, caught me a f*ckin flight man took my last 500 dollars man, flew to jersey, asked n*gg*s in jersey if they like your sh*t, they was like no, so i said f*ck it, ima take this n*gg* m*th* f*ckin head off. blackwall street, aftermath, g-g-g-g-unit. you know what it is n*gg* and you know where to find me