[Lloyd Banks]
|
Man what the fuck are you lookin for?
|
Can't a young nigga make money any more
|
Blow a couple grand in the NBA Store
|
Rock twenty-four thousand on the NBA floor
|
Niggaz be on stage bendin over on tour
|
Leave anti-social with a case of lochjaw
|
Just cause shorty look good, don't mean that you should go
|
puttin ice on the bitch like she won the Superbowl
|
Even the chips are low, for all these so-called old heads
|
Just ain't the same niggaz I used to know
|
I got a Houston ho - nah she ain't the sharpest knife
|
in the drawer but she a damn good booster though
|
See I could fuck a supermodel with my {?} works
|
Send her home with a smile and a couple kids on her shirt
|
I got a year into the game
|
A 141 rocks layin on my chain, geah!
|
|
[Chorus: Lloyd Banks]
|
Just another day, chillin in the hood
|
Just another day around the way
|
I'm tipsy off the Hennessy
|
We ridin round with the H-K, nigga we don't play
|
Just another day, chillin in the hood
|
Just another day around the way
|
We smoke a quarter pound a day
|
G-Unit we here to stay, nigga we don't play
|
|
[Lloyd Banks]
|
Nevermind the lames in my era, they all want me dead
|
And I know, it's all over the way I see bread
|
Here I go, caught up in some he say/she said
|
'Til I go, put a slug in my enemy's head
|
The Tahoe's, bulletproof so you can't get through
|
Then follow, your ass and whoever ran with you
|
And you about as assed-out as two jammed pistols
|
Bleedin around a bunch of niggaz who can't fix you
|
So bring yours, cause you know I got mine with me kid
|
The 8'll make you lose weight like Missy did
|
The O.G.'s tryin to hide they phony smilin
|
Reputation always arise in Coney Island
|
I'm at your local newsstand jerk
|
While the only XXL you been in as a shirt
|
And, speakin of shirts, get a new white T
|
God damn it feels good to be me - nigga!
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
[Lloyd Banks]
|
Now I'm goin, shoppin with a plastic card now
|
I'm growin, knockin international broads down
|
They know him, they're not gonna even pat the star down
|
I'm holdin, a glock so don't even act that hard now
|
You might bust your gun but your gat's in the car clown
|
So break your lil' weed up and crack your cigars down
|
Cause I ain't tryin to start my visits, with the fuckin judge
|
givin niggaz life like it's parkin tickets
|
Now I get to go to bed with a model
|
And the crib is bout as big as it is on the Belvedere bottle
|
I got all kind of ex' I could ram in they faces
|
Red and blue pills like the man in The Matrix
|
You might have spent some paper on your lil' charm but
|
My piece is bout as heavy as Lil' Jon cup
|
But, it's never tucked, nigga I don't give a fuck
|
I'll get bucked 'fore I give somethin up, yup!
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
[ad libs]
|
|
-----------------
|
Just Another Day
|
Lloyd Banks |