Lloyd Banks – Playboy

DJ Whoo Kid

Intro

Aw man, can I get a raw please

Y’all ready, for the main event

Damn, Lloyd Banks

Lloyd Banks

Guess who’s the man this winter, straight out the land of sinners

The ranger’s tan wit’ spinners, check out the white wheels

Roll wit’ the damn winners, or you and your man’s finished

You and your rams’ fitted, turn off the light switch

Holdin’ my torch down, even when the force ’round

You let your wife roam, she want a divorce now

You niggas ain’t this gully, playin’ to paint ya skully

You’ll never take this from me, the riders and all the gangstas from me

You shouldn’t be a problem, I ain’t be a problem

See ya later I read your head, you be a rodman

I know your type, hoppin’ all over the beach screaminYou call it hypin’ yourself up, I call it street dreaminI do it for all of the haters, the playas roll wit’ the gators

They lookin’ forward to favors, gossip is all they gave us

You niggas wasn’t quiet, meet the whales and the fishes

You lit the precinct up, playin’ tattle-tail wit’ the snitches

Even my momma knows, I got all kinda hoes

They wait outside the shows, stripped after the diner close

Out their designer clothes, wit’out the winer rules

Take off my baby blue mink, and Carolina boots

Come here, take a look inside an entertainer’s closet

I never trust a bitch, I blame lorainna bobbit

Niggas stay and pocket, I know you mad at me

But shit ain’t peaches n’ cream, and I ain’t Sarah Lee bitch

Chorus:

Don’t ice me, you starin’ at the wrong one

There’s a lot of girls here, go and get up on one

We at the bar poppin’, bottles ’til they all gone

If you ain’t leavin’ here wit’ us, you can walk home

‘Cause someone else will, they know how we ride

If you a playboy, you got one on each side

Keep your mouth closed, we don’t let the beef ride

Ride…ride…ride

Damn, let’s go

I do this for the hood, niggas stuck in the slammer

I smile ’cause I’m good, you act tough for the camera

Where I’m from the little kids, they fuckin’ wit’ santa

Cause they like tupac more, word?, word to my grandma

I figure I might as well leave here wit’ my glock drawn

‘Cause they’ll take you to jail even when you’re not wrong

Dawg you’re not this flashy, but you got to blast me

Every rock is classy, nobody on your block can match me

You shouldn’t want a fight

Unless you wanna fight for your life in a hospital 100 nights

I know your type, run behind your girlfriend rushinYou call it quality time, I call it handcuffinI’m on the beach of Miami, cellular reachin’ my family

All weekend wit’ panties, from Puerto Rican candy

You niggas wasn’t tough, I shoulda snapped some flicks

You wore your pants tight, play pitty-pat wit’ the chicks

Even my father knows, where the revolver goes

I bring the beef to your front door like dominoes

And my diamonds froze, that means my time froze

We in the club from when its poppin’, ’til when the time it’s closed

Half of these so-called real niggas can hardly sing

Naw I ain’t pullin’ over, learnt that from Rodney King

So tell your homey chill, you know I hold it still

Everything ain’t jabs and hooks, and you ain’t Holyfield, nigga

Chorus

Outro

Everybody on the left get your hands up

Everybody on the right get your hands up

Everybody up front get your hands up

And everybody out back get your hands up

And if you in here wit’ a strap get your hands up

Now put ’em up, put ’em up

Whut? Man fuck whut he said

Now put ’em up, put ’em up