[Fabolous]:
They call me G-H-E-T-T-O
Black star power, like B-E-T shows
I'm usually pullin' up in the G-T slow
Flashing my ring finger with the E-T glow
I'm that nucca, act rucka
Certified plat nucca
Semi-auto, gat bucca
Take that fucka
Lay flat sucka
Im the negro, amigo
Get every bay from Tampa to Montigo
They say I got the lifestyle, and the E glow
I'm in the blow range, no matter where he go
I'm that homie
Gat on me
I'm the kid not that phony
Anybody that know
Knows I'm here to get that money, yeah

[Chorus - Missy Elliot (Fabolous)]:
Heeey, now get that money, keep them rims spit shiiine
Twenty-four shoes on my Hummer, and they fittin' tiiight
Fabolous and Missy, sickalicious, riiight?
If you hater make my gun go
(Blocka, blocka, blocka, blow)

[Fabolous]:
They call me F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S
You just lay down slow (nigga)
Know this before this, tray pound blow
Spit game, get dames to lay down low
I'm da poppy chulo, the cops say the tops on the drops is too low
I shop til I drop, when I'm coppin' new clothes
Bop in the hop, but don't stop to use hos
I'm that new dude, that include
Making sure silencers in the gat is screwed
With an "it don't matter" mood
And a "fuck you, pay me" attitude
I'm that young boy, that slung boy
That'll have 'em saying, where you get that from boy
I'm still leaving niggas, at one choice
So run when you hear, that gun noise

[Missy Elliot (Fabolous)]:
You say you rich, then come and talk that shit to me
(Blocka, blocka, blocka, blocka)
Buy your DVD's and TV's, but I like shoes on my Jeep
(Blocka, blocka, blocka, blocka)
24-inch wheels, and a good gold grill in the front
(Blocka, blocka, blocka, blocka)
Gotta closet made for big clothes
Gotta do more than treat me to lunch

[Chorus]

[Fabolous]:
They call me William H. period Bonnie
I ride in a seven series with Tommie's
I make another one of America's hotties
And I'm that serious mami
I'm "The One," liek the Jet Li flick
The private jet ski's sick
The motors on the jet ski's quick
The clips in the sets be thick
And I done slipped more shots in than Gretzky's stick
I'm the one like Penny Hardaway's number
That's why dudes say it's hard to keep my broad away from ya
Once your bitch, get the God 2-way number
It'll be hard to get a Happy Father's Day from ya
I'm the one, like the piece that's on Nelly's chain
You can't reach me, I'm out of your celly range
Bitch, I'll even put canary's in your belly chain
And just to beat the traffic, hop in a helly man

[Chorus]