Brooklyn, Harlem
My man Little Fame on the beat, M.O.P.
Dipset, hey Suga Dooga
Verse 1:
Sold a million and they comfortable, oh boy
And you 30, you still can go to the store boy
My record store to the Windex to clean the Range
Chicken wings and fried rice, keep the change
Mitch you got the Coupe shop, well you lame buzzen
I’m not Pac, B.I.G., or Harold, ‘caine cousin
Lemme explain something, propane with the flames buzzin’
Young fella, umbrellas can’t stop us when there’s rain comin’
Lemme leave ’em alone, hop on a paper plane
Why I’m beefin’ for, he still ain’t even say my name
He know the kid the dal, F how them bitches feel
I’m on the gravy train, I got biscuit wheels
The one the chicks can feel
Like Darfy clickin’ heels
My car a babyface, it got that whip appeal
Hook
Cam’ron & (DukeDaGod):
Where my baby, my baby
Ya know, my lady, my lady
She never played me but lately, that’s my (Suga Dooga)
I see invision her strippin’ for tuition, just listen
I ain’t knockin’ ya mission, you my (Suga Dooga)
Who, me, sex, 5, me and miss act live
You fit that size girl (Suga Dooga)
I wanna beat it, in the bed I’m undefeated
Ya ass right, and look at the cleavage
Hey (Suga Dooga)
Verse 2:
Don’t wanna hurt ya heart, I feel we deserve a start
You smart, and me ma, I’m a work of art
You I’m admirin’, you feel that you’re tired then
School ain’t paying and they sayin’ they ain’t hirin’
Been there, told you different then I’d be lyin’ then
My boss ain’t have a gun so I was doin’ firin’
That’s neither here or there but you I’m tryna ask about
You like the internet, designer, fashion house
You from a bad block, worst ave, dead street
Ya baby-father, why bother, his nickname is Dead-Beat
You raised him all alone, your kids, you can call your own
You need a helping hand well baby girl, call the phone
Can’t move in but my crib you can call your home
Call your phone
Hook
Verse 3:
Hey Suga Dooga, they said I’m a pusher pusher
Calm down, I ain’t call you a hooker hooker
Naw I’m the nookie nooker, then I look and took her
«What about my man», tell him «Cam gettin’ mucke booger»
Unload the toolery, the jewelry, you frontin’ B
The eulogy, you don’t know about the kid, well Google me
And truthfully I’m sounding like some fuel could be
We can pull the guns out and duel it B, it’s cool wit’ me
Got a sluggin’ port, Lenox Ave, thug resort
Not on VH1, but I love New York
Some fiends love to snort, lawyers down to smother court
Right where their mother’s fought
And ma that’s another sport
