Bust open the yola, then you throw it in the pot

Mix that soda with that water, make that motherfucker lock

Chop it up and bag it, then ya flood the whole block

With that candy, cha-cha, white lobster, ready rock

(Dope)

(Dope)

(Dope)

(Do-do-dope)

(I'ma teach you how to sell)

(I'ma teach you how to sell)

(I'ma teach you how to sell)

(I'ma teach you how to sell dope)

The money come fast when pushin them grams

You get what you can, there's no retirement plan

Every move that I make is a calculated step

Gotta be careful what you say and who you conversatin with

I came in the game with nada, I left with a couple of dollars

That's the way I wanna be remembered up in this here yola game, partner

See, it's 'posed to be temporarily and momentarily but I'm stubborn

I put everything in my alias, I don't put nothin in my government

Stay with a cinnamon roll extension, extra cartridge drawn

Ain't no retirement plan or pension, catch you slippin, run

I got straight A's across the board, my ghetto report card never flunked

They gon' have to kill me on the spot, I ain't gettin off in nobody's trunk

Never take my chances by fuckin them up and punch

Scuffle and try to take his gun

I rather get a flesh wound 'stead of land up in attendance

"Throw me a stimulus package, my niggga, throw your nigga a bone"

That's what my OG said to me when he touched down, when he came home

I reached up in my pizznockets, shot him a thou-wow and a zone

Got a digital scale application on my iPhone

If you plan on goin to yolanary school, one of the first things they teach ya

Give your mama enough money to bury ya

And if you're backed up in a corner and the po-po Elroy question you

Never give up yo plug and tell on you or your crew

Some of the perks and amenities and benefits of sellin D

If you a ghetto celebrity you can almost get anything for free

Bitches gon' wanna fuck ya, and niggas gon' wanna be ya

Haters gon' wanna pluck ya, so you better pack a (?)

Every swing of the bat, every snap of the ball, every lay-up (?) counts

I know some dudes that been gridin for years and the police still ain't never found

No cha-cha, no dope on 'em, you know why, cause he don't touch it

And he don' be braggin, flycoonin and showin off, he drive a bucket

We didn't bring in all this dope, you traffic patrollin coast guard

We don't own no planes and boats, in the ghetto we got it hard

I'ma keep it all the way 300, I'ma keep it all the way funky and solid

I got mo' partners behind them walls than I do in college

Ridin with a couple of bricks, and the police on yo hips?

Take they ass on a high speed, throw the (?) over the bridge

And if it ain't no water around, throw that shit up on a roof

That way it ain't hand to hand and they ain't got no proof

Always let somebody in your circuit know who you coppin your sugar from

Just in case you end up, wind up havin a little more dough than him

Cause dudes be gettin jealous and put yo head on a platter

Funkin lesson number seven - never outshine the master

In the cha-cha game, wanna know how to sell dope proper?

One of the things you better do is go to your local trucker store and purchase a kick do stopper

Made by Master Lock and under yo mattress in yo capness you better have a chopper

Or a glock or a stapler or a thumper or a pistol

A rifle or a Uzi for the smunkish and the goony

Keep yo conversations limited, snitchin is prohibited

Take it to the grave with ya, never say who did it

Biatch