Okay
How you gon’ tell me I’m not the best
That came out the West? Um, I mean the East, see
I’m the president, but I don’t live in DC
I rep the NY, FYI, I said I rep the NY, FYI
I get them pies to them guys that say, “¡Ay, ay, ay!”
I’m the head honcho, get work from papi
And dead Pancho, put him in the roncho
I mean Range Rov’ where we let them things go
I only fuck with dudes that could let their chain show
(Get your chain out, nigga!), I’m such a eighty’s babe
Think you can beat me, then you’re azy-cray
Body bitches, have them pushing up aisies-day
Won’t you be my DJ, like Lazy K? (He on the 1s and 2s, bitch)
I’m such a psycho, niggas call me Michael
Nicki been hot, since you was on your tricycle
Bitches, Romans, countrymen
You salute the president with your country friend
Bitch, you ain’t writing shit, you get ten percent (What up?)
And you softer than them dudes, with their wrist-es bent
(Ah-a-a-a-a-ha!) It’s Nickelodeon
I am the president, where my podium?
And why these girls salty? Why they sodium? (I don’t know)
Is it because my flow slicker than petroleum?
See, I’m that yellow bus girl
They say, “Nicki, you the best!”, and I tell them “Uh, dur!”
You tell me what I know, I guess I must concur
I’m the reason why these bitches yelling, “Fuck her!” (Yes, sir!)
‘Cause everybody hate when you’re great and you’re caking
And when I say caking, I ain’t talking ’bout baking (Oh, okay)
But they gon’ get it all wrong
Fucking with them fake thugs and them fake Don Juans
Say he got workers like the kids in Hong Kong (Stop lying!)
But he ain’t getting chips unless you count them Bon Tons (Oh shit!)
Tell that nigga womp womp
‘Cause you ain’t getting chips unless you count then Bon Tons

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How the only chips you got is Bon Ton potato chips?
Like, that’s what I don’t understand, I try to tell these niggas, like, you can’t be serious
I’m Nicki Minaj!
Other than that, like, if you can’t see I’m the best
I mean really, you know, these bitches so washed up
I’m walking around with them dryer sheets
Like, you know, the sheets you throw in the dryer
Yeah, I’m walking around with them sheets now
‘Cause, like, when I see these washed up ass bitches
I’m just throwing them on bitches like, real talk, like
I’m just throwing them on bitches like
Bitch, hit the dryer, you washed!
Dirty Money

Album: Sucka Free

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