Lyrics Perfectionist - Rick Ross , Wale , Meek Mill
Hustle
out
of
necessity,
father
never
corrected
me
Streets
showed
me
no
sympathy,
Audemar
my
accessory,
huh
Never
accurate,
I'm
aiming
at
your
Acura,
yeah
Heart
rate
accelerate
on
other
amateurs
And
I
murder
anything
in
my
parameter
If
they
disrespect
us
we
slide
on
them
like
a
banister
Dodging
fed
cameras,
balling
like
fuck
stamina
Block
doing
numbers,
I
graduated
to
manager
Bricks
in
the
Maybach,
bricks
in
the
Escalade
Bricks
on
Brickell,
we
got
bricks
in
the
bay
San
Fran
bricks
got
bricks
in
L.A
Publisher
watch
the
money,
I
got
bricks
on
this
plane
And
my
nigga
Brick
on
his
way,
just
did
a
dime
for
a
brick
of
the
Yay'
I'm
switching
up
my
bricks
like
my
kicks
with
my
lay
Rule
number
one,
never
keep
them
bricks
where
you
stay
All
my
women
photogenic
they
never
depreciate
Pop
up
in
ya
city,
it's
strictly
about
the
cake
Quarters
to
half's
on
my
road
to
the
riches
All
real
niggas
just
playing
different
positions
Ross
gon
be
the
quarterback,
I'mma
run
this
quarter
back
Feds
try
to
intercept
a
nigga
like
a
corner
back
Make
a
nigga
pay
a
couple
birds
to
get
his
daughter
back
Get
the
dirty
money,
clean
it
all
up
at
the
Laundromat
I'm
allergic
to
failure,
heroin
paraphernalia
Frank
Lucas
furs
at
the
fight
on
my
cellular
Ball
like
Mayweather,
Don
King
at
the
register
I
stack
chedder,
it's
etcetera,
etcetera
I'm
addicted
to
winning,
pretty
women
and
spinnin'
Ferragamo
and
linen,
a
nigga
start
and
he
finish
D.A.
label
me
menace,
mama
call
me
a
king
So
therefore
I'm
dropping
soon
like
Tyson
was
in
the
ring
hah
Coca-cola
minx,
Canary
yellow
stones
I'mma
stunt
if
it
mean
I
gotta
break
a
bone
Me
and
Meek
Milly
in
the
hood
on
chrome
Double-M
G
and
we
20
million
strong
Don't
matter
if
it's
chess
or
checkers
cause
it's
all
blocks
(bricks)
I'm
in
this
911
Porsche
with
a
bald
spot
No
roof,
fresh
off
the
car
lot
And
we
don't
call
cops
nigga,
we
just
call
shots
Fuck
the
competition
I
bury
the
cock-a-roaches
Faint
when
you
see
what
I
pull
up
out
the
holster
Can't
even
breath,
remember
what
yo
mama
told
ya
We
the
real
g's
and
the
well
paid
soldiers
So
if
you
niggas
scared,
call
the
feds
up
We
taking
over
I'm
just
giving
niggas
heads
up
We
shoot
'em
down,
just
to
let
'em
know
we
dead
up
8 figure
nigga,
tell
the
labels,
give
that
bread
up
MMG,
bitch,
Maybach
Music,
we
just
do
shit
like
this
for
no
reason
No
pen,
no
pad
flow
Wale
in
the
building
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