verse
Looka looka looka here looka shorty got back
Should I ask her for a dance hold on theres too many in a wolf pack
And besides Dirtycash talkin to her
Buyin' her fake furs and takin' her to the fever
Quite as his kept that ain't even his Benz
She spends his franklins at the malls with her friends
Material girl, livin' in a material world
But it's alright cause its Saturday night
So mista funkmaster pump the Bee-Gees
And all you college students bring your ouijas'
Check the spellin, R E--F U G E--E get the cd from Sam Goody he he
You ain't even close wit the rhymes that you wrote
Don't be mad cause you broke
Let me clear my throat ah huh ah huh
John Forte grab the mic roots sway it this way
verse
I more than just a rhymer you still a small timer
Hopin that the game treat that ass a little kinda
Your beat dont concern me
I'm eatin mangos in Trinadad wit attorneys (oh yea)
My crews slang flow worldwide like a current
Wit da every spot where nobody get insurance
Brotha do the math you aint half near exotic
My man's claim true - you - forget about it
Pope hoe just a new stance like my influence
Well recognize you a lie tryin do it
Got juice told your lady oops
Smooth and charizmatic automatic
Godbless the day that my sons survive
We strive to teach the youth baby and stay alive
Writer(s): Maurice Ernest Gibb, Nel Wyclef Jean, Robin Hugh Gibb, Samuel Prakazrel Michel, Barry Alan Gibb, John E. Forte