Letra da Música Southern Gangsta de Ludacris

He's a hustler, unbound by law
A self-made, millionaire
With a wreckless disregard, for the haters
Ludacris, on "Southern Gangsta"...
A true, entrepre-negro
CEO of Disturbing Tha Peace Records
He expended his empire into multiple profitable businesses
Including his Thai food restaurant, Straits
Internet sites, WeMix.com
And my favorite, MyGhetto.com
The MVP, of this rap shit

Luda! I'm a hustler, BALLER, gangsta, CAP PEELER
I stay strapped like your neighborhood trap dealer
I got rifles that blow ya below ya bible belt
And mac-11's that leave you wetter than Michael Phelps! (woo!)
But you'll be swimmin with the fishes
Softer than bitches washin dishes, fool what's the BUSINESS?
I'm already rich, so talk mo' figures (yup)
Spit 30 large for cigars of you hoe niggaz (oww!)
I got gangstas that'll rearrange ya whole face
And put your casket on ice, now that's a cold case (ha!)
Never forget where you come or that block'll bang you
I keep my ear to the STREETS like a cocker spaniel
I cock and blast you, into outer space
Break every bone in ya, you so out of place
Boom without a trace, you a bluff to block
I got some red beams, let's play connect the dots!

He's the biggest boss, comin outta the M-I-yayo
Straight from the "Port of Miami"
To keepin it "Trilla"
Involved in many heated acts of violence
This goes deeper than rap shit
He's worth eight figures
So young niggaz, boss up
I present to you, Rick Ross, the boss

I got a letter from the government, the other day
I opened and read it, it said "We want hustlers"
Had a Lexus at 18, picture that
Got a Chevy with pictures on it from pitchin crack
Bitch I know Haitians, we speakin Creole
Bitch I'm a D-boy, still slingin kilos
I got twenty cars, why exaggerate?
It cost me five grand just to fill the gas tanks
Love the marble floors, got the Greek pillows
Frontin at awards, real street niggaz
I used to serve shake, now I serve steaks
Three squares on the road, call it 3rd Bass
Big ass face, chop you in your laugh face
Shoot his ass, aim defense is the last case
Keep Jewish friends, the newest Benz
You in a pool of blood, let me see you swim

Hailing from College Park, Georgia
Authorities figured they must have been some sort of mob
Or illegal organization
According to authorities, they made a quarter mil' a week
Selling {?}, they were some high-rollin hustlers
Tity Boi, and Dolla Boy
Playaz Circle, A.K.A., the Duffle Bag Boys

Uhh, I'm so sick I wrote this verse in a hospital
It's an election year, I support struggle
(We roll like bicycles, icicle flow)
(White liquor, my nigga stay on line with the blow)
I'm on time with the flow, not a minute nor second late
Ain't no such thing as second place
(And every day I live heavyweight, you niggaz featherweight)
(Fairytale tellin niggaz really need to take a break)
And the estate got a lake for a backyard
(The pool room product put it all on my sacks card)
For real? (Yeah, for real)
I'm ill, I deal, I did, I will
(I got dogs like Cujo, me and Tity two chains ridin in a two do')
Bitches catch kudos (you know)
Yeah we move weight like sumos
And kicks it with them bitches like judo
SOUTHSIDE!

Playaz Circle, Rick Ross, Ludacris
This has been another episode, of "Southern Gangsta"
Thanks for tunin in, what's next for Luda?
Well, anything's possible, in the (Theater of the Mind)