Verse 2:
If you ain’t about your paper,
Then don’t come to me,
With your hands,
Wide open begging me or us for a quarter.
Because we will be making,
Billions, Millions, Trillions Or Thousands of dollars a year,
While you broke jokers yourself,
Don’t get nothing.
You ain’t even,
Worth nothing to me hoe,
Like Chris Breezy told me,
These hoes ain’t loyal to me.
At least the people who look broke,
Don’t even have the common sense,
To even make their own money,
By themselves,
By collecting bottles and cans.
But instead,
I’m making all of this bread,
By myself,
Without no one’s help.
But with someone to guide me,
It’s so funny to me,
That we don’t owe them,
Much of anything.