Letras: Young Jeezy. Mr. 17.5.

Let's do it

New shoes on the range rover, good one man
Mother*** acting like I ain't supposed to shine
I ain't the one, definitely not the two
One in the chamber when we're aiming at you

The young Bob Barker, the price is right
If you C.O.D. then you could get them tonight
Put the fish scale on the scale
If Roy went postal, all he do is check mail

Low key, under the radar, triple black 'Vet, I call it the stealth
No currency machine, I could count it myself
Almost done, another quarter million in ones
Thunder storm in the body tap, look what I've done
Chump change, I make it rain for fun wussup

Snow man, getcha hands up high, it's ya' boy, Mr. 17.5
I take it back to the block, back to the kitchen, back to the pots
Snow man, getcha hands up high, it's ya' boy, Mr. 17.5
I take it back to the block, back to the kitchen, back to the pots

I get them bars out of the back of my mind
I reminisce like Mary J
Even in the drought, the boy kept that yay
A hundred percent served, snowman's word

You can play my thug and my clientele, why
I'm addicted to that new car smell
White cookies in a plastic bag
New shoes on the coupe with the paper tag

Whole life flash right before your eyes
See the state troopers and get butterflies
Got a thing for them Heckler and Koches
A minute 14 and Rolex watches

Somewhere in the back of my secret deranged brain
I get a rush when I tote that 'cane
Get money, *** *** them haters
All we fear is the discovery and Inditement papers, wussup

Snow man, getcha hands up high, it's ya' boy, Mr. 17.5
I take it back to the block, back to the kitchen, back to the pots
Snow man, getcha hands up high, it's ya' boy, Mr. 17.5
I take it back to the block, back to the kitchen, back to the pots

I'm a grown *** man, I stand on my own two
200,000 cash, I'm buying my own team
Right to your front door, operation so sweet
I like little dude who keeps his money so neat

But I still bury a ***
Put The Mask on, Jim Carey a ***
Swede ends in the Chevy, got me feelin' awkward
Careful with the sweets, don't burn my seats

You could live your whole life and not come close
Guess that's why these rap *** take notes
Recite my adlibs, borrow my quotes
Make me I hop a ***, serve them with the toast
Next, they be dressing like me
But back in '93, they wasn't stressing like me, wussup

Snow man, getcha hands up high, it's ya' boy, Mr. 17.5
I take it back to the block, back to the kitchen, back to the pots
Snow man, getcha hands up high, it's ya' boy, Mr. 17.5
I take it back to the block, back to the kitchen, back to the pots