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Artist: The Game f/ Pharrell, Shyne
Album:  California Republic Mixtape
Song:   They Don't Want None
Typed by: 

[Intro: Game]
Yeah, turn me up a little bit more
Yeah, yeah that's it, go
Niggaz in L.A. with P
See I'ma hop me a flight to Belize and get this shit done
This week, fast forward now I'm in Belize
Feelin myself, yeah, check

{"DJ Skee-Skee-Skee-Skee-Skee-Skee"}

[Game] + (Pharrell)
Far as dough I'm stuffed with cash, pop 'em like fuck the tags
Lampin in Belize, Louis Vuitton duffle bags
Guess who home? My nigga Shyne
Straight out the brick house to a brick house, money flowin like it's Cristal
Shine on it Swiss styles, I'm hood as Kiss Styles
Moncler Bomber jacket perfect for the piss style
Here this now, them boys don't want none
Release on the bloodclaat, to him body go numb
Gangland #1, Money Gang #2
Star Trak #3, back to EPMD
(We gots to chill) While I stack a mil' to the ceiling
Ten Benzes outside, meet them gangstas in the building
One nigga, can't stop this motherfuckin killin
Hell on Earth the repercussion, the blood is spilt on my children (what?)
Cowboys and Indians, motherfuck the pilgrims!
Infiltrate my squad, knew every cap peelin
For real

[Chorus: Game] + (Pharrell)
(They don't want none) Don't make a nigga pull Glocks
and bust shots, spin that black Ghost around the block
(They don't need none) We got pills for days
Give a bitch chills and thrills for days - knahmean?
(Let 'em have some) Ace of Spades by the fountains
Kush by the ounces, marijuana mountains
(And when we come) We bringin the funk
Yo P, let 'em know (HAH!) Money Gang, uh

Fish out the cooker, theme music for the pussies
In the kitchen with the cook of Blood Gang and you woofers
You fuckin hookers, y'all a bunch of Ashton Kutchers
with your fairy tale raps - I ain't jackin that
Yo Game, I'm laughin at
these copper turned shottas, imagine that
Yo where the fuck your life happen at?
You's the only one there - I swear (I swear)
Stop the bloodclaat cryin
I'm in Belize with Game when the shots firin, he's silent
Y'all muh'fuckers singin
I've seen the paperwork, you a fuckin pigeon, no kitchen
Count blood money to the ceiling
George Jackson shit, vague vag' villain
Hopin every sellin, clippin{?}
Y'all ain't fuckin with me, I'm the best livin


Check it, what the bloodclaat?
Nigga Blood got Ferrari's and Lambo's parked outside the drug spot
Survived five shots, you know that
Them bitch niggaz died, they cried, cause they had to pay fo' that
Paris Hilton, where the blow at?
I just won a hundred racks on blackjack and you know I'm 'bout to blow that
They don't make real niggaz where you from
Sig-45, I'm 'bout to finger-fuck the trigger 'til them hollows come/cum
Talk shit? Swallow one, you fuckin move me
I disrespect niggaz like in old Italian movies
I'm sayin, I live, you're ready
I come in the restaurant with my shirt off and spit in your fuckin spaghetti sauce
Boss, my pocket's fatter than my nigga Ross
Wipe the spilt Patrón off my mouth with my Louis cloth
Understand? I'm a California felon
Bust your cerebellum, Skateboard go and tell 'em!