Correction Lyrics f*ck The B.S by Nicki Minaj

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Lyrics

Yeah
Cut it up, gimme a light
Yeah, and by the way, n***a
It's Young Mula
First Lady
Ugh, yo, yo

Let us begin with a bad lil' specimen
Balenciagas, only things I be steppin in
Pucci bathing suits, only thing I'm dressing in
'Cause I get wetter than a navy seal veteran
Got—Got 'em writin love letters in they jour-n-al
Keep 'em on they toes like a midget at the urinal
Bad—Bad—Bad-Bad—Bad—Bad as I wanna be
She ain't bad, she a sad little wannabe

Yeah. f**k the bullsh*t. It's big money popping. Young Mula! Yeah, just like that. What up, young n***a? Let's go. Gudda, brrrat!

Okay, we running this sh*t, whеn we walk in the building
Got b*t*hes from wall to wall, hoеs hangin from the ceiling
Young Money we 'bout to kill 'em, I promise I make a million
And if they didn't have no hands I'll bet them b*t*hes gon' feel 'em
I'm talkin money and power; you getting money? I doubt it
Fresher than baby powder, with your b*t*h in the shower
That pu**y, I'ma devour; I beat it up 'til it's sour
No need for you to even trip; b*t*h I'll be done in a hour, let's go

Yeah
Yeah, that's more like it
Junior!

They say the blacker the berry, the redder the cherry
I say the sweeter it is—you dig? Buried
Then the bullsh*t varies, and it got me wary
But I know two are the same—call it "murdered" and "married" (Believe that!)
Hustling is so necessary, with no adversaries
But ain't no love, like a calendar with no Februarys
I'ma need four secretary, and four Bloody Marys
I'ma go eat me some pu**y, and choke off the cherry—I'm gone

Yeah, fully loaded with it
To the ceiling with it
More money than you ever seen, n***a!
Aight, Drizzy, Drake—

Look, kill the game, no one recovers the murder weapon
Young Angel, if you hate me tell me burn in heaven (Brrrrat!)
How'd ya sleep on me? The highest earnin freshmen
Like your third infection, I hope you learned your lesson (Yeah)
Yeah, I spit raw, but I prefer protection
I own a heart and a mind and a shirt she slept in
b*t*h, I got the answer, and still ain't heard the question
I shut your club down, please reserve my section
f**k a confrontation, there ain't no cake in it
And I'm caking, b*t*h, so tell me why I'd take a break from it
The mother of your child always tell you I'm her favorite
She call me her baby—not the one she was in labor with
She say, "Ooh, you taste good," I say, "Ooh, just savor it"
She know that she love a n***a, I be on that major sh*t
'Cause I get paid to stand, and I get paid to sit
So I don't walk around with money, baby girl—I'm made of it

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