Lyrics White Sand, Pt. 2 - Rick Ross feat. Triple C
White
sand
White
sand
White
sand
White
sand
White,
white
sand
White,
white,
white
sand
White
sand
White
sand
White
Maserati,
full
of
white
girl
White
neighborhood,
white
clientele
Black
Kel-Tec,
White
Prosecutor
One
slain
male,
well
paid
shooters
I
put
the
team
together
like
I'm
Meyer
Lansky
Fast
money
bitch,
can't
even
clock
my
land
speed
Four
door
Porsche,
just
bought
it
last
week
Five
mil
from
LA
Reid,
let's
see
how
long
that
last
me
I
sign
for
mils
and
run
through
it
just
like
an
athlete
I'm
in
the
same
boat,
as
Usain
Bolt
Say
I'm
insane
cause
everything
always
pertain
dope
I
say
you're
right
and
pray
I
see
you
hoes
on
Skid
Row
Look
what
they
did
to
Wayne,
they
wanna
hang
me
Pull
out
my
contracts,
turn
to
page
three
When
this
shit
fold,
I'mma
slang
D
We
all
do
the
time,
some
just
remain
free
All
of
them
white
sands
all
up
in
your
wife
man
Shit
in
my
right
hand
will
shorten
up
your
lifespan
Was
right
there,
serving
hand
to
hand,
pitching
white
grams
Got
cooked
up,
scrape
right
from
out
the
bottom
of
that
rice
pan
(?)
Chevy
heavy,
I'm
deadly
with
my
dice
hand
Over-do
it
like
Shower
Posse,
hitman
on
a
Kawasaki
Coming
through
loud
and
cocky,
I'm
bout
it,
yous
a
coward,
akhi
(?)
I'm
a
real
nigga,
HD
clear
as
Hitachi
You's
a
black
and
white
TV
all
cloudy
and
sloppy
You's
a
sixties
hippy
joint
and
I'm
flowers
of
poppy
(?)
Top
of
the
hourglass
is
grains
of
the
white
sand
Time
is
running
out,
better
come
run
get
this
pipe,
man
I
tell
the
club
owner
to
lower
down
the
lights,
man
Baseball
brim
over
the
eyes,
coverted
to
the
hives
man
Crack,
crack,
crack
Crack,
crack
Crack
kills
motherfucka
who
cares
A
cup
in
the
microwave,
that's
a
case
or
a
Benz
Brillo
pad
in
your
chest,
now
tell
the
rest
of
your
friends
I
got
a
line
at
the
door,
now
I'm
yelling
nine
in
the
hole
Somebody
told,
now
somebody
body
cold,
maricon
Two
Tecs
protect
my
treasure
while
I
digitally
measure
Her
mouth
do
all
the
work
while
my
dick
get
all
the
pleasure
Talking
white,
you
talking
right,
that's
what
I
be
talking
like
Talking
like,
twenty
light,
bring
me
twenty
more
than
that
tonight
I'm
at
you
with
that
ratchet
if
I
catch
you
with
that
package
Bitch
I'm
'bout
my
business
and
I'm
damn
sure
gon'
handle
it
And
I
still
got
that
white
sand,
them
niggas'
coke
beige
I'm
getting
good,
I'm
thinking
taking
up
a
dope
trade
Majored
in
distribution,
bags
fatter
than
Rasputia
You
know
the
prices,
you
don't
like
it,
my
little
dog'll
shoot
ya
That
white
got
me
ice,
that
ice
got
me
noticed
And
then
from
that
that
Arm
and
Hammer,
adding
baking
soda
Whip
it
‘til
it
stretch
hard,
look
at
all
my
stretch
cards
Red
paint,
white
sand,
ain't
I
blessed
boy
The
rest
raw,
the
other
side
cooking
Thirty
six
O's,
got
this
kitchen
whoofing
It's
still
black
boy,
more
white
ice
Bet
they
know
I
got
the
blow
for
the
cheap
nye
I
told
your
ass
before,
scared
money
don't
make
it
If
I
can't
afford
work,
best
believe
I'm
gon'
take
it
Believe
I'm
gon'
break
it
down
to
the
nickel
piece
(White,
white)
I
count
bricks
to
go
to
sleep
Surrounded
by
the
leaches,
hating
from
the
bleachers
Custom
cars
and
cycles
tight,
bitch
I
ain't
need
none
of
them
features
I
know,
my
flag
red,
my
money
right
On
black
sand
tanning
cause
they
know
my
sand
white
First
time
I
whipped
it,
that
shit
looked
like
some
yogurt
Tried
it
again,
turned
a
hundred
grand
to
a
quota
Tried
it
again,
I
ain't
missed
a
quota
ever
since
Freight
full
of
Foldgers,
folding
money
more
than
Merrill
Lynch
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