[Intro - Big Tigger]
Yeah
Rap City
Big Tig' off the top, it's going down
Whoo Kid, G-Unit
Album in stores, Beg For Mercy
They real cool in the back, man
Think they plotting on my G6's, man
Big Tig'

[Verse 1 - Big Tigger]
Off the top, we put it up in the mixes
I'm standing strong in them black G6's
Whoo Kid provide the beat, it's off the top
G-unit in the basement and we blazing hot
Come on
It's off the Tupac and Biggie joint, Big Tig'
I'm off the top and it's always on point
4PM every afternoon on your TV
Basement booth, check it live on BET
I got my man Banks, shoutout to Yayo
I be rocking the club with your girl, lay low
With my man 50, and my man Young Buck
You know, we don't give a what
Who next to step up?
[Verse 2 - 50 Cent]
Yeah
One time for your-
For your mind, uh
50 Cеnt, uh
The basement, what?
It's going down, uh
Yo, chеck it
Yo
I told ya'll, I'm a hustler, it's like you keep on forgetting
36 mil' in eight months, you still think I'm bullshitting?
Catch me on top of Fortune's Hot 100
Head of G-Unit Enterprises, still getting blunted
Went from selling crack to rap, that's two different games
But they run parallel to each other, so they're quite the same
Hahaha

[Verse 3 - Young Buck]
Young Buck
G-Unit in the building
And we gon' do it like this
Ay, Let me spin the piece first
Let me spin the piece on these people
Here we go
Ay the-
The Desert Eagle stay stashed in the Buick Regal
A 12-gauge in the back, right beside the speakers
And I got beef but I'm riding through any hood
Christian Dior seats, 23's, leather and wood
Ain't seen the block in a minute, so you know where I'm going
Make sure the fiends still coming, they know that I been touring
A ghetto dude who still hang where he came from
Not one of them people hollering gangster when he ain't one
New York got a lot of rappers like to battle rap
I tell 'em, "Nah, I ain't with it homie, grab a strap"
My little brother like me, he wanna sell dope
The Vice pulled him over, he swallowed it down his throat
We all know the consequences when you play to win
Half of these gangsters that get out the pen' go in again
What would you do if I told you it was a hit on you?
Strap up? Or get wrapped up? Back up!
Yeah, yeah...
[Verse 4 - 50 Cent]
That was Lloyd-
That was Young Buck right there
Next up, we gon' ride with my man Lloyd Banks
Hold up, hold up, hold up
Let me get with 'em
Yo, check it
Yo
You know that crack spot so hot, you better off playing the block
Fiends can't help but be fiends, they come and cop for the cops
Back in the pens again, penitentiary doors spin
The game's full of heartbreaks, can I win for Christ's sakes?
Ace after ace, Lady Luck just won't fuck with me
That's why I got this attitude, they don't say what up to me
I jook something, heart-pumping, move and I'll pop something
Cop bricks, break 'em down to pieces and prop something
N***as stay in stunt mode so I stay strapped up
My body language saying, ''Fuck around and get clapped up''
I sip on Coke mixed with Henny, go for broke with the semi
N***as talk behind my back, but they don't really want it with me
Pussy n***as pop shit, me, I'm on that block shit
That rubber band, hundred grand in that night box, bitch
You know the raps bought the Benz, and the crack bought the rims
Vivica, she bought the gyms, told you I'm a fuckin' pimp
I was born a bad seed, I defied the odds
I ain't play the hand that I was dealt, I switched the cards
Still, I keep a poker face, front and I'ma catch-a-case
Flip out and poke your face, you're laid out, now what a waste
50 Cent
[Verse 5 - Lloyd Banks]
Yeah, look
Yeah
You should calm your man down if you got love for him
Before you see his ass flying off the roof like Nutso in Above the Rim
The kid is out for the gusto and I love to win
Driving the industry nuts so I'ma rub it in
I'm paid so if I have a tribe, every kid is spoiled
You smell that, n***a?
Yeah, I just shit it on you
My path's cluttered, so the gun goes with me
And the bullets are the size of Mutumbo's pinky
And they automatic which means it'll unload quickly
I hit 'em all with a drumroll .50
They make another song
Get a chick pregnant? Wrong
I don't even trust myself
I walk into the hotel with my rubber on
Then I'm gone
Designers think I'm funny style 'cause I ain't selling nobody else clothes
I wear my own
The industry's phoney, the hell with a rap homie
Gimme a cheque, a couple mil', and a jet
Why? See, heavy smoking is a thing I do
That's why my weed supply can fill up the pouch on a kangaroo
We in the club with the daggers, the razors too
I'm cool as ice water; my earrings are laser blue
You should cop a new vest
'Cause if I got a tattoo for every n***a I lost, there won't be room left
And I'll be damned if I spend my afternoon stressed
My sex partner's 5'9'' with balloon breasts
Ghostwriting is a hobby kid
So if somebody's shit sound like I wrote it, I probably did
And it ain't hard to tell you flopped on your last tune
'Cause your dressing room's the size of my bathroom
If I'm at the dealer, I ain't browsing; I'm buying
These rappers can't spend a hundred thousand; they lying
You damn near sold a hundred thousand-