Stat Quo, Lloyd Banks, 50 Cent - Get That Money lyrics

Let's get that money man
Let's get that money man (yeah)
Let's get that money man
Let's get that money man (yeah)

Let's get that money man
Let's get that money man (yeah)
Let's get that money man
Let's get that money man (yeah)

G-G-G-G-G, G-Unit!
50 Cent uhh, Greg Street, ATL to Dallas
You heard me? Check it out

Porsche spots, drop, gun in the stash, box
Get your bitch-ass, shot stuntin around here
Here flow so, hot, they say I got it, locked
Hold on a second homie, let's get this clear
Look the wrists stay, rocked, the Ruger stay
Cocked i hope you smoke a lot
Cause I supply your weed, spots
Got a few questions and I need
The answer on the spot that bitch you with
She like you or she like what you got?
Tryin to maintain
Tearin niggas out the frame
Semi-automatic flows you know how it goes
Boss, B-O-S-S-M-A-N, gun in hand
Understand, gettin money is the plan
Greg Street is my man

Uhh, gettin money, YEAH!
Stat Quo baby, Atlanta's own in this thang
Uh, uh

I stays by my 'fetti baby, big boy Chevy baby
Choose a pimp, hop on in
Only if you're ready baby
Ain't no ifs or maybes
Motherfuckers gotta pay me
Radio, gotta play me, stack a mil'
I know you hate me
Stat Quo partner got a stable
Full of head dollars
All my folk cold choppers
Even though the Feds watch us
Tired of duckin the blockas
Shawty fresh as?
Snitchers sing to the coppers like all
Them tryin to stop a G
Playa ain't no stoppin me
I'm the nigga that you tryin to be
Live from Atlanta or in Dallas
With my homie Street
Ain't no way or ain't no eat
My mom used to make lunch free
My ma speak, now that's street
That the way we do we gettin money (yea)

Look, it's on now time to cut
The cake, fuck the Jake, tuck the plate
Make a move, dump the eight
Guaranteed to pump his breaks
Too pissy drunk the case
Ain't got a month to waste
Smile with a pumpkin face
Deep enough to jump the states
Stuff him in the trunk escape
- you want a problem
Fuck the bass, up the stakes
Everything I wear is up-to date loyal cat
Guarantee my son'll be a spoiled brat
Hot enough to boil crack, M-5, all you black
I'm the reason all you rap
Admit it I'm daddy black
Doin this since "Caddy Shack" with
Greg Street in that Cadi-llac
Blowin on a pillow pack
I call it Koffee Brown
Bitches can't get off me now
Rasta man toss me pounds
I ain't from a softy town
Niggas'll break your bones, crack your faith
Call the doctor, let him put it back in place

Ha ha ha, 50 Cent yeah what you gon' do boy?
From New York to Atlanta to Dallas boy
I'm all over the place
I'm international playa
You heard me? Ha ha ha
Case you dealt with me