All Birds - Rick Ross, French Montana

Walk with a real nigga

Self-made millionaire

What more could you ask for, huh?

I’m a kamikaze in a Maserati

I’m a John Gotti, got my own army

Worth fifty million and it’s all on me

Fifty on my Rollie knowing yours phony

Last problem I had, a nigga head-shot him

Say the word on the street is that my man got him

If I wasn’t involved you wouldn’t hear about him

I got Lears and all — don’t need Aaliyah problems

May she rest her soul, I got a sleeping problem

All my CDs gold but the Visa darker

Bastard child but I got a fleet of cars

Double-M G this little thing of ours

Take it to the door, motherfucker, plea

Niggas layin' on your crib while your momma sleep

Home-cooked meals for the real niggas

Hot Tec 9 for you little niggas

Want to shoplift?

Come and boost this

We run the fucking game, nigga, truth is

Cargo pants and my red bottoms

Talking 'bout birds you know the boy got 'em

No clothes in the closet, it’s all birds

No sneakers in the sneaker box, it’s all birds

No luggage in the trunk, man, it’s all birds

And I ain’t going back — I’m a ball first

Anything you need know I get it cheap

My nigga Rozay makes millions while he can’t sleep

Cars European come and see the fleet

We’re commercial;

come and see us if you need the street

I’m a bring it home nigga bet the bank

Sierra Leone all up in the link

'Bout to double up, some Mason Betha shit

Huddle up, round table, King Arthur shit

Shorty ass fat, she can’t stand straight

Spent your down payment on my landscape

Niggas sideways like the Phantom door

Hundred round drum sound like round of applause

Slicker than a can of grease

Paid the state in the ice, hundred grand a piece

Coke, boy, I’ll be thirty for sure now

Coke damn near same price as dope now