Metta Sandiford-Artest, Deacon, Challace, Foul Monday , Jim Jones - Get Like Me lyrics

Blue Yankee fitted, get like me
AZGs on the feet, get like me
Off the lot new V, get like me
I’m tryin' to tell these niggas, get like me
Bag shawty no game, get like me
All eyes on the chain, get like me
So fresh, so clean, get like me
I’ma tryina tell you man, get like me

Talkin' 'bout cash, don’t lease
Pockets like it’s fat, obese
Watch all flooded, rocking no piece
This is vampire life, we don’t sleep
Just hash, no keef
I smoke big blunts, need the whole leaf
(Khalifa, what up)
I buy big cars, need the whole street
5 cars, niggas 4 deep
One hot car with goons all in cold heat
I’m a Porsche 2 nigga, a whole freak
You might think she had no teeth
You can hear her scream Papi, going so deep
Porsche Panamera with the 4 seats
We at the Staples Center on the floor seats
As I tap my nigga Ron Ron
Sit back laughing, high off the chron chron

What up Jones, you know it’s Dipset
I’m reppin' hard, where my Dipset chain, kid
I be in Harlem like the Bartendaz
Doing pull ups on the bar
All the broads gettin'
Catch me in the city with the Mets fitted
Certified vest and the whips kidded
Hat low, jeans loose fittin'
Lil' saggy, lil' baggy
New York ain’t trippin'
NY DNA, blowing orange blood, Knicks all day
What, yeah, that’s how we do it
Red bricks, steel fences, still loosin'
They call me Styles P, never change
Won’t do it matter fact, can’t do it
I guess I’m stuck in my ways
Like I’m stuck on the A train

New York City 'til the death of me
I’m from the bridge where we
Cookin' up the recipe
So tough, knock 'em out, get 'em buried, G
Then blow a dub, yeah the kush
That’s the recipe
With Challace and Jones, we blow it by the P
Me and World Peace
Lockin' up the damn streets real nigga
Get 'em gone with the liquor scene
Now they slippin' point blank
Get the picture G

Cut the mike, acapella on them niggas
Squad up, I got a real team full of killers
I ride for my niggas
While these niggas steady snitchin'
I’mma die for my niggas, get like me
Blue Yankee fitted, real Queensbridge
Got nothing but the realest
I’m a real Queens kid
I’m Air Forced out, I’m real, no dealt
I’m runnin with the team, AMG and we out

8’s on the low low, 20s I believe
40 on a neckpiece, 30 on the sleeve
Drinkin' little reckless, burn a couple trees
Spittin' Hennesy out the
Sunroof of limousines
This is Monday baby and I’m not a star
I’m as loud as my sour when it’s out the jar
I seduce these bitches without
An ounce of fraud
So they leave with they mind
Right and they body sore
I’m waking up to smell of money blowing
Pay no mind of what them other suckers doin'
Niggas stuck up in they sad lives
Sad faces, Alisha, the sad cry
Niggas, tell me what your life like
Mines' is celebration every night
And I sit back and laugh at
You niggas that’s looking' tight
So my advice is end
Your fucking miserable life or get like me