Rick Ross, Meek Mill, The Alchemist - Perfectionist lyrics

Hustle out of necessity
Father never corrected me
Streets showed me no sympathy
Audemar my accessory, huh
Never accurate, I'm aiming at your Acura
Yeah heart rate accelerate on other amateurs

And I murder anything in my parameter
If they disrespect us we slide
On them like a banister dodging fed cameras
Balling like fuck stamina
Block doing numbers, I graduated to manager

Bricks in the Maybach, bricks in the Escalade
Bricks on Brickell, we got bricks in the bay
San Fran bricks got bricks in LA
Publisher watch the money
I got bricks on this plane

And my nigga Brick on his way
Just did a dime for a brick of the Yay'
I'm switching up my bricks like
My kicks with my lay rule number one
Never keep them bricks where you stay

All my women photogenic they never depreciate
Pop up in ya city
It's strictly about the cake
Quarters to half's on my road to the riches
All real niggas just
Playing different positions

Ross gon be the quarterback
I'mma run this quarter back
Feds try to intercept a nigga
Like a corner back
Make a nigga pay a couple birds
To get his daughter back
Get the dirty money
Clean it all up at the Laundromat

I'm allergic to failure
Heroin paraphernalia
Frank Lucas furs at the fight on my cellular
Ball like Mayweather
Don King at the register
I stack chedder, it's etcetera, etcetera

I'm addicted to winning
Pretty women and spinnin'
Ferragamo and linen
A nigga start and he finish
DA label me menace, mama call me a king
So therefore I'm dropping soon like Tyson
Was in the ring hah

Coca-cola minx, Canary yellow stones
I'mma stunt if it mean I gotta break a bone
Me and Meek Milly in the hood on chrome
Double-M G and we 20 million strong

Don't matter if it's chess or
Checkers cause it's all blocks (bricks)
I'm in this 911 Porsche with a bald spot
No roof, fresh off the car lot
And we don't call cops nigga
We just call shots

Fuck the competition I
Bury the cock-a-roaches
Faint when you see what I
Pull up out the holster can't even breath
Remember what yo mama told ya
We the real g's and the well paid soldiers

So if you niggas scared, call the feds up
We taking over I'm just
Giving niggas heads up we shoot 'em down
Just to let 'em know we dead up
8 figure nigga, tell the labels
Give that bread up
MMG, bitch, Maybach Music
We just do shit like this for no reason
No pen, no pad flow wale in the building