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White Sand Part II
par
Rick Ross
Featuring(s) : Gunplay, Kool G Rap & Triple C's
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White sand White sand White sand White sand White, white sand White, white, white sand White sand White sand White Maserati, full of white girl White neighborhood, white clientele Black Kel-Tec, White Prosecutor One slain male, well paid shooters I put the team together like I'm Meyer Lansky Fast money bitch, can't even clock my land speed Four door Porsche, just bought it last week Five mil from LA Reid, let's see how long that last me I sign for mils and run through it just like an athlete I'm in the same boat, as Usain Bolt Say I'm insane cause everything always pertain dope I say you're right and pray I see you hoes on Skid Row Look what they did to Wayne, they wanna hang me Pull out my contracts, turn to page three When this shit fold, I'mma slang D We all do the time, some just remain free All of them white sands all up in your wife man Shit in my right hand will shorten up your lifespan Was right there, serving hand to hand, pitching white grams Got cooked up, scrape right from out the bottom of that rice pan (?) Chevy heavy, I’m deadly with my dice hand Over-do it like Shower Posse, hitman on a Kawasaki Coming through loud and cocky, I’m bout it, yous a coward, akhi (?) I’m a real nigga, HD clear as Hitachi You’s a black and white TV all cloudy and sloppy You’s a sixties hippy joint and I’m flowers of poppy (?) Top of the hourglass is grains of the white sand Time is running out, better come run get this pipe, man I tell the club owner to lower down the lights, man Baseball brim over the eyes, coverted to the hives man Crack, crack, crack Crack, crack Crack kills motherfucka who cares A cup in the microwave, that's a case or a Benz Brillo pad in your chest, now tell the rest of your friends I got a line at the door, now I'm yelling nine in the hole Somebody told, now somebody body cold, maricon Two Tecs protect my treasure while I digitally measure Her mouth do all the work while my dick get all the pleasure Talking white, you talking right, that's what I be talking like Talking like, twenty light, bring me twenty more than that tonight I'm at you with that ratchet if I catch you with that package Bitch I'm 'bout my business and I'm damn sure gon' handle it And I still got that white sand, them niggas' coke beige I’m getting good, I’m thinking taking up a dope trade Majored in distribution, bags fatter than Rasputia You know the prices, you don’t like it, my little dog’ll shoot ya That white got me ice, that ice got me noticed And then from that that Arm and Hammer, adding baking soda Whip it ‘til it stretch hard, look at all my stretch cards Red paint, white sand, ain’t I blessed boy The rest raw, the other side cooking Thirty six O’s, got this kitchen whoofing It’s still black boy, more white ice Bet they know I got the blow for the cheap nye I told your ass before, scared money don’t make it If I can’t afford work, best believe I’m gon' take it Believe I’m gon' break it down to the nickel piece (White, white) I count bricks to go to sleep Surrounded by the leaches, hating from the bleachers Custom cars and cycles tight, bitch I ain’t need none of them features I know, my flag red, my money right On black sand tanning cause they know my sand white First time I whipped it, that shit looked like some yogurt Tried it again, turned a hundred grand to a quota Tried it again, I ain’t missed a quota ever since Freight full of Foldgers, folding money more than Merrill Lynch [Hook]
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