RICK ROSS


Perfectionist Lyrics (ft. Meek Mill)

Hustle out of necessity, father never corrected me
Streets showed me no sympathy, Audemar my accessory, huh
Never accurate, I'm aiming at your Acura, yeah
Heart rate accelerate on other amateurs

And I murder anything in my parameter
If they disrespect us we slide on them like a banister
Dodging fed cameras, balling like fuck stamina
Block doing numbers, I graduated to manager

Bricks in the Maybach, bricks in the Escalade
Bricks on Brickell, we got bricks in the bay
San Fran bricks got bricks in L.A
Publisher watch the money, I got bricks on this plane

And my nigga Brick on his way, just did a dime for a brick of the Yay'
I'm switching up my bricks like my kicks with my lay
Rule number one, never keep them bricks where you stay

All my women photogenic they never depreciate
Pop up in ya city, it's strictly about the cake
Quarters to half's on my road to the riches
All real niggas just playing different positions

Ross gon be the quarterback, I'mma run this quarter back
Feds try to intercept a nigga like a corner back
Make a nigga pay a couple birds to get his daughter back
Get the dirty money, clean it all up at the Laundromat

I'm allergic to failure, heroin paraphernalia
Frank Lucas furs at the fight on my cellular
Ball like Mayweather, Don King at the register
I stack chedder, it's etcetera, etcetera

I'm addicted to winning, pretty women and spinnin'
Ferragamo and linen, a nigga start and he finish
D.A. label me menace, mama call me a king
So therefore I'm dropping soon like Tyson was in the ring hah

Coca-cola minx, Canary yellow stones
I'mma stunt if it mean I gotta break a bone
Me and Meek Milly in the hood on chrome
Double-M G and we 20 million strong

Don't matter if it's chess or checkers cause it's all blocks (bricks)
I'm in this 911 Porsche with a bald spot
No roof, fresh off the car lot
And we don't call cops nigga, we just call shots

Fuck the competition I bury the cock-a-roaches
Faint when you see what I pull up out the holster
Can't even breath, remember what yo mama told ya
We the real g's and the well paid soldiers

So if you niggas scared, call the feds up
We taking over I'm just giving niggas heads up
We shoot 'em down, just to let 'em know we dead up
8 figure nigga, tell the labels, give that bread up
MMG, bitch, Maybach Music, we just do shit like this for no reason
No pen, no pad flow
Wale in the building

these lyrics are submitted by BURKUL3

Official lyrics powered by

Rate this song (current rating: not rated yet)
12345678910
Meaning to "Perfectionist (Ft. Meek Mill)" no entries yet
(*) required
(*) required

Characters count : (*) min. 100 characters required