eah....Comin' fresh out that Pyrex pot,
black Air Force 2's and the White Sox...
fitted on my forehead, try me, go head.
I'll bring out the polka dots, put Guame on your forehead.
Yeah, it's the new king of everything,
and bitches don't say no to me, I'm like a wedding ring.
Maybe it's how I pour that Patron,
maybe it's how I smell a pair of Silver Cologne.
Maybe it's how I write shit when I'm in the zone,
and I'm sick of blow jobs, bitch leave me alone.
And tell Dr. Dre to pick up a phone,
before I climb through his window like "Nigga I'm Home".
Runnin' the rock like OJ, nigga it's a throwback,
fuck a Aston Martin, show me where the stone fat.
Get a jar, some baking soda, nigga hold that,
the world is my grandma's kitchen, time to cook crack.
The Dope Boys in the building.
What's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
What's up? The Dope Boys in the building.
Yeah, what's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
What's up? The Dope Boys in the building.
Yeah, what's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
What's up? The Dope Boys in the building.
What's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
Yeah? The Dope Boys in the building.
You couldn't smell that crack comin' out that motherf**king Porsche truck.
I stop traffic with the rims that I'm sittin' on.
Them ain't high beams, bitch my wrist is on.
The same shit that Ludacris is on.
Disturbing the peace if my stash missing stones.
Yeah, count that work like a paycheck,
niggas couldn't play The Game in a tapedeck.
A boss never touch work if it ain't taped yet.
That's how you get f**ked, I practice safe sex,
and I take ya boy Curtis bitch with my tongue,
lick lick lick like Shawna and have her sprung.
Show her my inner-condom and have her sprung,
and put it all in her stomach and just UHH!
black Air Force 2's and the White Sox...
fitted on my forehead, try me, go head.
I'll bring out the polka dots, put Guame on your forehead.
Yeah, it's the new king of everything,
and bitches don't say no to me, I'm like a wedding ring.
Maybe it's how I pour that Patron,
maybe it's how I smell a pair of Silver Cologne.
Maybe it's how I write shit when I'm in the zone,
and I'm sick of blow jobs, bitch leave me alone.
And tell Dr. Dre to pick up a phone,
before I climb through his window like "Nigga I'm Home".
Runnin' the rock like OJ, nigga it's a throwback,
fuck a Aston Martin, show me where the stone fat.
Get a jar, some baking soda, nigga hold that,
the world is my grandma's kitchen, time to cook crack.
The Dope Boys in the building.
What's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
What's up? The Dope Boys in the building.
Yeah, what's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
What's up? The Dope Boys in the building.
Yeah, what's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
What's up? The Dope Boys in the building.
What's up? The Dope Boys. What's up? The Dope Boys.
Yeah? The Dope Boys in the building.
You couldn't smell that crack comin' out that motherf**king Porsche truck.
I stop traffic with the rims that I'm sittin' on.
Them ain't high beams, bitch my wrist is on.
The same shit that Ludacris is on.
Disturbing the peace if my stash missing stones.
Yeah, count that work like a paycheck,
niggas couldn't play The Game in a tapedeck.
A boss never touch work if it ain't taped yet.
That's how you get f**ked, I practice safe sex,
and I take ya boy Curtis bitch with my tongue,
lick lick lick like Shawna and have her sprung.
Show her my inner-condom and have her sprung,
and put it all in her stomach and just UHH!