Lyrics:

[skit] [Busta Rhymes] yo, it all began like, bust it My nigga City bout to bounce on a trip We met some niggas with alot of things they want em to flip I told my nigga get the dough and keep the blau on your hip Travel safe, you know that I'ma hold it down on the strip Good lookin, word to mother son I give you my wit But when I get back, I'ma bounce straight to your crib On the strength, son slid until you to the Greyhound Wit a burner in the knapsack, headed straight outta town Now, three days pass I'm still on the strip Doin hand to hand with twelve collapsible, stashable clips With little magnets on the side of the clips we planted like a project When police come we stick the clips in any metal object Throwin a nigga on the walls and try to search me down I laugh knowin that my stash'll never be found Well anyway, on the third day, son came straight to the strip Wit a new floss and shiny shoes on the whip My nigga hit me with the latest, greatest He told me get inside the whip so I can know just what the up to date is He said he fuckin wit some Guyanese niggas how ill them niggas is What kind of dough they get, and how they handle they biz How they connect with Jamaician niggas who speak American And how they chains swung a medallion iced out pelicans And how they stay wit four pounders And speak American to try to blend in Like they aint obvious out of towners Okay, I've never heard of workers gettin five G's pay For trips that last for only 2-3 day How these Guyanese niggas be eatin pasta but they love zucchini Rockin valor tennis suits by Sergio Tecchini Them type of cats that call you because you can't call 'em Rockin baseball fitters with wild animal skins