Ghost Rivers to the Riches

[Verse 1: Chris Rivers]
When I was five-years-old, pops had the Glocks in the stove
Run around and out for fifties, that's the cops in the cold
Stackin' feta green, double-platinum (-) and leather seams
Stack more cheddar better than fellas who praisin' Halloween
All for the love of show money, that VAT money
That trap money, packin'-MACs-in-back-of-the-Ac' money
Niggas act funny, but know ha-ha shit
I been post since age six, startin' some rah-rah shit
When I get it backwards, I rap words that crack Earth
Niggas stack birds, I cry for a collapsed Earth
Fuck it, rap nerd, 'bout to get it like crack worth
Niggas spit like he vomit in comets, or that's (-)
Get the hustle in my veins, got the muscles in my brain
Ain't no puzzles in this game, you put in work a state of shame
See the SeaBus lights, sinkin' mikes and I ain't eatin' right
I don't want to wait until I die broke to see the light
I wore Cadillacs from rappin' raps, spit words like acrobats
Backflip, rich (-) give you cataphracts
Mom, I need the mansion by the body of water
So I bodied this verse, then I body your daughter
Sexually, I'm on the road to riches
Bitches'll act when he talkin' Swiss
Bank accounts'll make you (-) to (-)
I'm just a cool G that raps, tryin' to see these stacks
And bring hip-hop back, fuck all the memory

[Verse 2: Styles P]
Yo, Chris passed the shit to master it
Got a light, point at the house and gas the shit
And I ain't even halfway pissed, I'm hazardous
Gun pop right up in your (-)
Let me slow down, make it a ghost town
Probably with a goon-nigga smokin' a roach down
It's the killer on the West Side Highway, tu madre
And get battered down like a plate for the Padres
Benz color the Garvey, not for lookin'
I don't know the plug name, but he's Hector-lookin'
What's the price? Never too much, never too much
You ain't for much, gun at the trainer tearin' your core up
Lane with a pump on a bump of your tour bus
Keep talkin' shit, my nigga, and get your jaw cut
Or your whore fucked like a prostitute
Plug one like pasta (-)
If it's beef, then I gots to shoot, gots to stab
Keepin' it hundred, who want to get chopped in half?
Nobody, I know this, I did lots of math
You ain't gots to touch the work, you ain't got the cash
And I left the wax home, but I got the hash
And Chris got the guns, I got the mass
Like M.O.P., nigga, yeah, we gots to mash
Guess you niggas find out when you pop in half