Текст песни 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