Artist: The Game f/ Pharrell, Shyne Album: California Republic Mixtape Song: They Don't Want None Typed by: Nickolye16@aol.com [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 [Shyne] 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 [Chorus] [Game] 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! [Chorus]