People like myself, only hang with self cause that's the way to go

I can't go outside without findin some new kinfolks

People on my left, people on my right, all in my earhole

Make be like whoa and find me somewhere else to go









It's Mag from your TV screen, buzzin off the Jim Beam

But the Mag y'all think y'all know ain't what I seem

I'm a low-down freak from Seapeak(?)

See them high school mates, I see 'em and don't speak

All y'all wanna talk like we used to hang

Cause I'm doin my thang, now you wanna bask in my fame

That's why I stay out the club, be in the crib

Smokin a dub, countin my cash, over the phone

And I'm sellin cell phones, all with chips

My nine to bloods, my glock to crips, who want war?

You and your boys can bring the noise

But I'ma bring hand grenades, now you're laid!

Pull out my dick, piss on your bitch-ass

Sit on your face, now you gotta kiss ass

Who fiend for fame life belong to your fans

and haters and thugs that wanna end your lifespan









Uhh, uhh, uhh - since I got bigger (bigger)

I'm over here and y'all recite Tim's my nigga (nigga)

Like I just figure (figure)

And my tracks didn't help niggaz

So for rememdy I pound niggaz

Like I keep 'em in DJ's for that new Jigga

Like them forty-two Girbauds

I pocket every demo, like Timbaland - he's that next nigga

Confirmed by people that she can blow

Convinced Booker T she's the next to go

Now I'm checkin every joint and every unit I sold

Once I'm deep in the dough, I'm deep with a crew

In the 80's y'all screamed like the movie is through

Y'all screamin this is "Nutty Professor: Part II"

To "Eyes Wide Shut" to whoever I choose

I can appreciate a Kidman to a, Tom Cruise

To a, fast food, I'm strictly drive-through

The money I gave dudes I basically raised fools









Even the phone spit it, God know what I'm thinkin

I'm drinkin and smokin and stressin, go to church for confession

Down on my knees, beggin to God, show me the path

My label is jerkin me workin me so the devil can lurk in me

Sick of niggaz bitchin, wishin I'd fail

Tell 'em Mag be the rap effin Kenan and Kel

I'm spittin the version of verses curses over the churches

Rappin mo' iller than thriller Manila and give you salmonella





Stop, the press!

Bitch, you can't afford that dress, you can't afford that hairdo

I don't want your sex, here take your fast food

"Tim you're dead wrong, Tim you're dead rude!"

Hey girl, I don't even know you

"Timbaland we're your first cousin Marion Sue"

My momma never ever mentioned you

My momma also told me to watch them savage boos, what?