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like whaaat (remix) - problem lyrics

[intro: problem]
no limit forever
diamond lane, master p in this motherf-cker
(league of starz)
problem, it’s ’bout to be a motherf-ckin’ problem
(sorry jaynari)
from my hood to your hood
my lil n-ggas ’bout to wild out
how you do that there?
n-gga, we don’t care

[verse 1: problem]
who that, talkin’ ’bout, who that?
run up on me? you get your -ss beat blue black
go on get nerve, i’m off the curb
push mountains of herb, you n-ggas already heard
the bro berg keep a pistol grip pump on his lap at all times
wherever, however, ’cause young n-ggas stay tryin’
see ’em and be like, “huh, n-gga, what?”
“huh? give a f-ck like what?”
uh, h-ll yeah, this the remix, these b-tches comin’ harder than cement
the kind that put the blow to they nose, no kleenex
shinin’ like the sun, no phoenix
diamond lane gang, wear it big, no 3x free miller
you g-ngb-ngin’ foolie chucker
more n-ggas still good on the block, timmy duncan
knockin’ n-ggas out they style like a f-ckin’ 50 dumpin’
labels can’t advance me, that cali n-gga that got diddy dancin’ (ha)

[chorus: problem]
yeah, i’m just doin’ my thang
fingers in the sky
bang- bang- banging my gang like ooh
go on fall back
’cause you don’t want no problems like that
’cause we gon’ be like “huh? n-gga what?
huh? give a f-ck, n-gga whaat?”
a n-gga be like “huh? n-gga what?
huh? give a f-ck, n-gga whaat?”
a n-gga be like

[verse 2: wiz khalifa]
hahaha, uh, what’s smackin’?
30, under 30, i’m a young rich black man
ooh, what’s happenin’?
no, it ain’t taylor, less my hands is in
grands i’ma spend, grams put them in
seen that bombay, ran from the gin
stayin’ low key, still they know me
smokin’ og, and i blow it by the o-z
we faded, hoe, please
i’m gettin’ stupid high, me and p-r-o-b
my j’s super old, rick owens, no sleeves
we at the after-party, you can bring your own weed
and we gon’ take shots until someone has to drive us home
come from a place where they do tote that chrome
smile on they face, but ain’t nothin’ a game
stackin’ that paper, don’t get in their way or rat-tat-tat

[chorus: problem]
yeah, i’m just doin’ my thang (hahaha)
fingers in the sky
bang- bang- banging my gang like ooh
go on fall back
’cause you don’t want no problems like that
’cause we gon’ be like “huh? n-gga what?
huh? give a f-ck, n-gga whaat?”
a n-gga be like “huh? n-gga what?
huh? give a f-ck, n-gga whaat?”
a n-gga be like

[verse 3: chris brown]
look, okay, it’s ohb so n-gga, bag bag
i got an ounce of that bounce in a glad bag
molly f-ckin’ up my liver, got a bad back
and if you tryna f-ck with her, i’ma tax that
-ss all on the floor, i’m tryna pour it up, b-tch
lean on my d-ck, so slow it up, b-tch
and the police tryna pull up on the scene
then they ask you what you seen? i ain’t seen sh-t
a hundred n-ggas right behind me that’s the drum line
all you hear is, “blat, blat,” hit it one time
f-ck a punch line, n-gga, had bread since the lunch line
i can put them soldiers on the front line
open season, just n-gga give me the reason to bust
and just let it squeeze and my rope-a-dope is the meanest
i box you up in the freezer, comatose, paraplegic
i’m dodgin’ the misdemeanors hopin’ i don’t get subpoenas but i

[verse 4: tyga]
(ha!) huh, bangin’ out the truck
i’m t-raww, b-tch, gon’ let a n-gga f-ck
huh, b-tch, you heard what i said
your b-tch is a bird, but i don’t give her bread
what? problem p-ss the weed
these n-ggas claim they ballin’, then why they clothes free?
these motherf-ckers cheap like a nosebleed seat
you ain’t gotta go to miami, b-tch, to feel the heat (woo!)
la, burner to your belly
my n-ggas ogs, keep the burner in the telly
gettin’ head ’til it ache, that’s a motherf-cking headache
do this sh-t tonight, send it straight to felly felly
n-gga, why? i’m selling dreams, the money team
n-ggas spend crack but they ain’t got no fiends
got the juice and the cream, wu-tang, rakim
i’m a motherf-ckin’, money machine, n-gga

[chorus: problem]
yeah, i’m just doin’ my thang
fingers in the sky
bang- bang- banging my gang like ooh
go on fall back

[interlude: master p]
how ya do that there? (whaaat)

[verse 5: master p]
me and problem gettin’ paid
but don’t f-ck with you broke hoes, n-ggas, or you haters
man d. howard with the motherf-ckin’ lakers
i represent the street, no limit is the label
throw your hoods up, motherf-cker, where you from?
we in this b-tch deep and it can get dumb
n-ggas in the back, motherf-cker, poppin’ bottles
chasin’ bad b-tches and them n-ggas throwin’ dollars
louis v down from my head to my toes
c-murder in the pen, and that iron gettin’ swole
never gave a f-ck ’bout no n-ggas wanna hate
keep the chopper in the car, ‘case a n-gga wanna play
she showed me the t-tties, i call them b-tches dhali
i know she a freak, ’cause she gone off molly
pushin’ 160 when i’m ridin’ in the ghost
you ain’t from ’round here, n-gga, better walk slow, or get smoked

- problem lyrics

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