Cam'ron:

This is a remix

J.R. Writer featuring Hell Rell and myself Killa

We about to let y'all muthafuckas know why we run the world

Ya dig



Hook

J.R. Writer:

Don't stop, grill 'em

Don't stop, grill 'em

Don't stop, grill 'em

Don't stop, grill 'em

Don't stop, grill 'em, grill em, grill 'em, don't stop



Bridge: JR Writer

This that get 'em sound

This that get it down

This that two-step, wheel shaker, spin around

This that pick a clown, size him up, try ya luck

Playa hate, grill him down, lemme see you twist ya frown



Verse 1

Cam'ron:

They got guns, well maybe they'll squeeze (maybe they'll squeeze)

I'm a piano I got 88 keys (88 keys)

Mami sniffed it, it went to baby brain

Road the subway now I'm on the gravy train

What you call balling, all y'all boring

Knock his teeth on the grill, Paul Wall Foreman

All these pricks, I took weed trips

Tore the club up, yup, on that Three 6

I'm the realest of cats, and I'm still where it's at

I been broke with the South, trill to the trap

Stealing, wheeling caps I been peeling them back  (back)

We dealing you squealing, we killing the rats (rats)

Santana, kill 'em, kill 'em, kill 'em, kill 'em

J.R., grill 'em, grill 'em, grill 'em, grill 'em

I will pop you while I'm popping a pop-a-wheel

Paid In Full, not the deal, put him in Potter's Field



Hook



Verse 2

Hell Rell:

Mr. Ruger picture a coward confronting me

Nature's mad because the trunk is in the front of me

Gangstas in the back of me, hammer on the hip of me

Hand full of piffery, damn I know they sick of me

They gon' say the boy the hardest this year

And I'm a G so, I'ma eat regardless this year

Come to the crib, yeah it's retarded in there

Big screens, suede couches, bunch of marble in there

Damn, undercover hating, shit just let it out

And why ya hair done ma, all you gon' do is sweat it out

Go through any nigga town and Dipset it out

Shit they'd rather set him up then just set him out

Make these niggaz bleed, make 'em blood donors

And they don't wanna let me in, smack the club owner

Got shades on, I'm always high bitch

You looking at a star, I ain't even in the sky bitch



Hook



Bridge



Verse 3

J.R. Writer:

The sporty is foreign, shorty's adorin'

Fuck if the couches are suede, my Mauries are on 'em (fuck it)

I'm fresh head to toe check how bad the don bling

A thousand grams, chain got a Barry Bonds swing (bling)

I get her with the swag, then get 'em with the Jag (rrrr)

What's on my left sleeve is what get 'em to the pad

Them chickens in a bag, you ain't fresh in my eyes

I ain't doing nothing to her but she's letting me slide

From the floor to the bathroom, hall to the backroom

Then dog out the whore, on his balls like a vacuum

Mack 'em and duck to the back of the bus

She's a scraggler and yup, she ain't wack but she sucks

If you act like a scrap then in back is a truck (with what)

Where they packing a Mac with some caps for you smucks

Huh, I can't stand to slouch, you know what fam's about

She ask to see my grill so I pulled the Phantom out (look at this grill)



Hook



J.R. Writer:

This that get 'em sound

This that get it down

This that 2 step, wheel shaker, spin around

This that pick a clown, size him up, try ya luck

Playa hate, grill him down... lemme see you twist ya frown