17 get at me
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I ran more cock than Johnny
Sippin' Tanqueray with OJ, sportin' Bruno Magli
Not guilty but filthy, smellin' like Christian Dior
Infiniti QX4, gimme yours
Of course, sinnin'
Swimmin' in the abdomen of pretty women
Love to love ya like Timbaland
Winnin' the engine, like three strikes in the ninth inning
I rock satin boxers, cotton socks and denim
The game he kick, special teams couldn't return
Got you out like a texturizer, burn like the ultra perm
Toss it up like a geyser
Sosa, Costra Nostre like Kaiser
And got a thing for rehabilitating hoodrats
Who keep they hair and nails done and they legs waxed
I peep that you got a man, but you want a homie, love, or friend
My sentiments exact, get at me
I like your style
Can we kick it a while?
Baby, so you can get at me
I got no game, it's just that women understand my sport
I got a man
But we can still be friends
So you can get at me
Baby, baby, baby
Some things make you happy just to be alive
Like seein' Toni Braxton naked on the cover of the Vibe
Drive like hittin' 225 in the pen with no spot
I survive drama to know when to lick shots
Keep a top notch just a phone call away from my crotch
Never brought sand to the beach 'cause these streets is Baywatch
You know how we do, satin lingerie I see through
Now she barely even kiss you
Leavin' 1-7-7-1-5-4-0-0 on my pager
Your chickenhead wife was poultry, undersexed and sultry
That's the rhyme and reason why we committed adultery
I swear, womens love from Bel-Air to welfare
Chalkin' up these frequent fly miles on Con Air
Her mama shoulda named her Kasino
She got the liquor in the front, the poker in the rear
Get at me
I like your style
Can we kick it a while?
Baby, so you can get at me
I got no game, it's just that women understand my sport
I got a man
But we can still be friends
So you can get at me
Baby, baby, baby
You know my steez though, dark skinned and Creole
I'm 'bout it, just without the Master P dough
But see though, my tax bracket decent and increasin'
Make no mistake, you can't get a slice if you don't bake the cake
The reverse trick, my silly ex-bitch
Transport bricks for twenty percent commission
She dressed up with nowhere to go
While blowin' up your dress like Marilyn Monroe
For sure, at my girl party flirtin'
But I think she caught me, like a Nazi
Now I'm certain she got me under surveillance like John Gotti
Now I'm signin' on the low, actin' straight Illuminati
Don't get mad, I'm only bein' honest
It's Clarence Thomas (Fuck you Ras) you promise
Then freak me slightly below the hips
And blow me a kiss with your pussy lips
Get at me
I like your style
Can we kick it a while?
Baby, so you can get at me
I got no game, it's just that women understand my sport
I got a man
But we can still be friends
So you can get at me
Baby, baby, baby
Get at me