Paroles Chain of command Rick Ross

Chain of command

Nino Breeze
Big Tony
H-Town
Let's pour up somethin' (Maybach Music)

Dick suck with my head back
Blue hat and my red slab
Gold Vogues, I'm jet lagged
Old hoes, I don't text back
Ridin' 'round through H-Town
Choosin' hoes from the waist down
Taxin' niggas for the fake smiles
Celebrate as a cake, pal
Half a mil' in my ragtop
Race a nigga like NASCAR
What you niggas so mad for?
Rollin' weed out a glass jar
Pretty bitches, I piss on
I'm outside 'til the bricks gone
Shop online and I get somethin'
Bottom line, my bitch comin'
First round, my draft pick
Pass the hookah to a bad bitch
Belaire bottle, that's that shit
(Belaire bottle, that's that shit)
Ricky Ross is my nickname
Caught a charge and my bitch came
Blame it all on my dick gam?
Double-M, ain't shit change (Nah)

I been had—
I been had my lil' pain (I been had my lil' pain)
I been had my lil' swag (I been had my lil' swag)
I been playin' with that cash (I been playin' with that shit)
I been had all the bad ho?s
Audemars to Cartiers, I been had those
Hottest nigga in the city, I been that, though
And had these niggas in they feelings, what you mad for?
Probably 'cause I'd catch a body 'bout my cash flow
Deposit like Illuminati how they snatch soul
See, I be wantin' all the drama on some creep shit
So I can go to droppin' demos where you sleep, bitch
Peep this, Forgiatos and they deep dish
Ain't no weakness, you ain't strong enough to beef with
Highly recommend you miss a nigga with the sneak diss
Have the 40 starin' in your face like a bee lip (Ayy)
And I got a rap nigga BM all in my DM
Some niggas say they wanna be Mike, I wanna be him
I wanna flood the city with pipes, I feel like Ewing
I want a hundred mil' in my life like Master P them
I want the baddest bitch in the game, I want me some paper
Not a drop of ho in my blood, that's not in my nature
I'ma put a hole in your mug, the fuck I'ma play for?
How you still playin' me pussy? Then I'm gon' shake ya

Boss gloss on my Vogues tires
Twelve racks for the four-nines
Boss gloss on my Vogues tires
Twelve racks for the four-nines
Desert Eagle weigh four pounds
West Good Bank where it goes down
H-Town, this for the city
Told you niggas wasn't fuckin' with me
Takin' off like the Houston Rockets
And Acres Home, they comin' with me (Maybach Music)
Thick thot don't wanna stop givin' me top up in the drop
Get the drop, one phone call, have them Hoovers runnin' up in your spot
Play with them, but don't play with me, keep a knife and AK with me
In the trap, keep yay with me and two young niggas that stay with me
Metal-grain strap when you see me, 7.62s fly, Chopper City, B.G.
Cop a 396 off one GC
Bunk baby, sippin' on syrup like sweet tea
Wockhardt mixed with Fanta
Y City dead slow, headed to the Camper
Real-life stepper, never been no rapper
Head the game with a run, wasn't no pleasure
Pull up on your block and make OG cowards, I don't really even need no strap
From the north to the south, got the city on lock, on some real G shit, no cap, nigga