Game Ain`t Based On Sympathy

Reminiscing on that, uh… I remember they used to give us that free cheese... A big block of that shit Yeah, man I'm glad y’all ain't gotta get that cheese Man, I thank God my kids ain't gotta see that cheese Yo, you know what I’m saying? You gotta feed it to them raw. Feel me? (Maybach Music) [Verse 1: Rick Ross] Renovatin' the ghettos, movin' me elsewhere Daddy didn't see pension, they took his healthcare Affordable housin' and they fed us welfare Showed us Tony Montana, teachers couldn't care less A young prince in Miami, son of a pharaoh This is deeper than raps, I can't run from the echoes And I still hear the screams Under my mattress box springs, I still see the C.R.E.A.M Mac 11 next to Grammy invitations I'm never quiet, tell my niggas all my aspirations No more beefin' with rappers, it's just murder or nothin' New positions to master, I perfected the others Niggas shoot for the Magic, never heard of Matumbo These are lucrative assets, golden words that I mumble [Verse 2: Rick Ross] (This the biggest) Corner store was the stage, I needed management In a mansion that I could squeeze another phantom in Negative people just seem to fail first I said I'm a genius, put in the legwork You step to my niggas, suggest you stay alert No, I've never been lenient, nor a man of mercy I stick my dick in her, tell her my net worth Then we stare at each other and see who catch first A pretty chick, she resembles Stacy Dash If it was her, she had to kiss my feet and lick my ass Pussy nigga want war, til' it's bonjour Those hitters sittin' a bomb outside your mom door Got your people alarmed 'cause we the armed force Easy as leakin' a song before I go on tour [Verse 3: Rick Ross] Uh Gang violence ongoin', let's fight our own wars Chicago been out of hand, the city lost it's soul Funeral every weekend or either you cremated Homie's son, he been murdered, he didn't seem faded Holdin' guns on the gram, out of my league baby Real killers and hitters would rather live nameless I got a homie I know with a twenty body count Maybe once or twice a month he leave the house Older brother, type to get a curly perm Pappy Mason type respect for holdin' thirty birds Never was a gangster, I just wanted in No longer could I deny that I wanted a Benz Booby gave me blessings and a ruse for me to win I showed him my ambition in two different fields Also, said I was a rapper, Booby here it is Real talk my nigga, here it is