The Intro (BSB Vol. 6)

[Verse 1: Young Lito]
Look, it’s the rook the vets fear
A breath of fresh air and Js from next year
Haters talk threats but see me and just stare
While I’m pushing something foreign, fast and next gear
I be bossing, convertible Porsche’ing
Thank God my momma ain’t get that abortion
Balling on these haters sometimes can be exhausting
But I’m ‘a keep stunting ‘till they put me in a coffin
Young nigga talking all greezy, jewelry all freezy
Five chains on, momma says I look cheezy
But these women love me, they tell me they’ll never leave me
I just want the money, these honeys gotta be easy
I’m living ‘Vida Loca’, riding with the toaster
Sold coca ‘cause being broke wasn’t kosher
Teacher said go to college, me, I said ‘no, sir’
I want a roadster and you drive a Toyota
I’m riding on the road to riches, flexing
I ain’t even into fitness, it’s a blessing
On everything, God’s my witness, I was stressing
But now a nigga back to business
That Lito tape

[Interlude: Troy Ave]
Man, we built this shit from the ground up
Self-made and self paid so the haters got they frowns up
Shit, as long as the bitches and the bank tellers smiling, it don’t matter
Real niggas never get involved in chitter-chatter, I’m over it
See-me-out type of nigga
And we be out on the regular
Niggas couldn’t call me out if they had my cellular
Hello? Bad reception, Metro PCS ass niggas
BSB Records is the number one independent label in the streets
We’re about to run the game and you can smell defeat
Ah, that’s the smell of success, niggas
Young Lito, a.k.a. Young [Flito?]
You’re up next, I’m ‘a shoot like a free throw

[Verse 2: Young Lito]
Yo, Ave told you, Lito’s taking over
Straight from the bottom and ‘bout to bubble like soda
That’s shook-up, don’t even ask what’s up
‘Cause clearly it’s me, you motherfuckers better look up
I’m probably in a spaceship, neck full of stones on some “grave” shit
Styling on them niggas that you came with
You niggas is basic, ain’t ‘bout action, you just say shit
Till that big Mac curl you up like a wave kick
[Pakah?], nigga I ain’t a rapper
I’m a gun clapper in the field like a Packer
But this AR ain’t got a team, it’s got a beam
If you’re frontin’, I’m ‘a let it b’ring, I do my thing
Man, you haters don’t move me, niggas know I do me
Eight grade I had eightballs in my Coogi
Had all the Jordans, but a nigga wanted Gucci
So my greed ‘d turn your Pops into Pookie
Girls and the groupies, friends and the haters
Shit, I just wanted to shine like Vegas
But niggas don’t want to see you shine when their light’s dim
Them other niggas wash, man I ain’t nothing like them
It’s Lito