Sunday, 23 June 2013

Problem - Like Whaaat (Remix) Lyrics (Ft. Wiz Khalifa, Chris Brown, Tyga & Master P)

Problem - Like Whaaat (Remix) Lyrics (Ft. Wiz Khalifa, Chris Brown, Tyga & Master P):
[Verse 1: Problem]
Who dat, talkin’ bout, who dat?
Run up on me, you’ll get your ass beat blue black
Go on get nerve, I’m off the curb
Push mountains of herb, you niggas already heard
The bro Berg keep a pistol gripped pump on his lap at all times
Wherever, however, ’cause young niggas they trying
See ‘em and be like “huh, nigga, what?”
“Huh? Give a fuck like what?”
Hell yeah, this the remix, we comin’ harder than cement
…to they nose, no Kleenex
Shining like the sun, no Phoenix
Diamond Lane gang wear it big, no 3X (free Miller?)
You gangbangin’ foolie chucker
…still good on the block, Timmy Duncan…
…labels can’t advance me…
That Cali… got Diddy dancing
Aye, I’m just doing my thang
Fingers in the sky, banging my gang, like…
Ooh… go on, fall back
‘Cause you don’t want no problems like that
‘Cause we gon’ be like “huh, nigga, what?”
Huh? Give a fuck, nigga, what?
A nigga be like “huh, nigga, what?”
“Huh? Give a fuck, nigga, what?”
[Verse 2: Wiz Khalifa]
What’s Mackin 30, under 30
I’m a young rich black man
What’s happening
No it’s ain’t Taylor less my hands is in
Grands I’mma spend, grams put them in
Seen that Bombay, ran from the gin
Staying low key, still they know me
Smoking OG, and I blow it by the O-Z
Fader, please
I’m getting stupid high, me and B-R-O-B
My Js super old, Rick Owens, no sleeves
We at the after-party, you can brig you own weed
We gon’ take shots until someone has to drive us home
Come from a place where they do tote that chrome
Smile on they face, but ain’t nothing a game
Stacking that paper, don’t get in their way
Or Rat-tat-tat
[Verse 3: Chris Brown]
Ok it’s OHB sir, bag bag
I got an ounce of that bounce in a Glad bag
Molly fucking up my liver, got a bad back
And if you trying to fuck with her, I’mma tax that
…all on the floor, I’m trynna pour it up
Lean on my…. so slow it up
And the police trynna pull up on the scene
Then they ask you what you seen
Right behind me that’s the drum line
All you hear is ‘brat, brat’, hit it one time
Punch line, nigga had bread since the lunch line
I can put some soldiers on the front line
Open season, just give me the reason
To bust, and just let it squeeze and
My rope-a-dope is the meanest
I box you up in the freezer
Comatose, paraplegic
I’m dodging the misdemeanors
Hoping I don’t get subpoenas
[Verse 4: Tyga]
Huh? banging out the truck
I’m T-Raww, bitch, go on let a nigga…
Huh? you heard what I said
Your bitch is a bird, but I don’t give her bread
What? Problem pass the weed
These niggas claim they ballin’
Then why they clothes free?
Cause motherfuckers cheap
Like a nosebleed seat
You ain’t gotta go to Miami to feel the heat
LA, burner to your belly
My niggas OGs, keep the burner in the telly
Getting head till it ache, that’s a motherfucking headache
Do this shit tonight, send it straight to felly felly
Why? I’m selling dreams, the money team
…but they ain’t got no fiends
Got the juice and the cream
Wu-Tang, Raheim
I’m a money, money, money machine
[Verse 5: Master P]
Probably getting paper
Don’t fuck with you broke niggas, you haters
Like D. Howard with the motherfucking Lakers
I represent the street, No Limit is the label
Throw your hoods up, where you from?
We in this bitch deep
And niggas get dumb
Niggas in the back poppin’ bottles
…throwing dollars
Louis V down from my head to my toes
C-Murder in the pen, and that iron getting swol’
Never gave a fuck ’bout no niggas wanna hate
Keep the chopper in the car, case I wanna play
She showed me the… call that… Dhali
I know she a freak, cause she gone off molly
Pushing 160 when I’m riding in the go
You ain’t from round here, better walk slow

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