Chain of Command Lyrics – Rick Ross

[Intro]
Nino Breeze
Big Tony
H-Town
Let’s pour up something (Maybach Music)

[Verse 1: Nino Breeze]
Fat sack with my hair back
Blue hat and my red slab
Gold Vogues, I’m jet-lagged
Old hoes, I don’t text back
Riding ’round through H-Town

Choosing hoes from the waist down
Taxing n!ggas for the fake smiles
Celebrate as a fake pal
Half a mil’ in my ragtop
Race a n!gga like NASCAR
What you n!ggas so mad for?
Rolling weed out a glass jar
Pretty b!tches I piss on
I’m outside ’til the bricks gone
Shop online,

[and like, get] (??) something
Bottom line, my b!tch coming
First round, my draft pick
Pass the hookah to a bad b!tch
Belaire bottle, that’s that s*it (Belaire bottle, that’s that s*it)
Ricky Ross is my nickname
Caught a charge and my b!tch came
Blame it all on my d!ck gamе
Double M, ain’t s*it change (Uh)

[Verse 2]
I been had
I been had by the pain (I been had by thе pain)
I been had my own swag
I been playing with that cash (I been playing with that—)

I been had all the bad hoes
Audemars, Cartiers, I been had those
Hottest n!gga in the city, I been that though
I been had these n!ggas in they feelings, what you mad for?
Prolly ’cause I catch a body by my cash flow
Deposit like Illuminati, how this snatch souls
See, I be wanting all the drama on some creep s*it
So I can go and drop a dummy where you sleep, b!tch
Peep this, Forgiatos and they deep dish
Ain’t no weakness, you ain’t strong enough to beef with
Highly recommend you miss a n!gga with the sneak diss
Have a .45 standing in your face like a sweet b!tch
N!ggas’ BM all in my DM
Some n!ggas say they wanna be Mike, I wanna be him
I wanna flood the city with pipes, I feel like Ewing
I want a hundred mil’ in my life like Master P, them
I want the baddest b!tch in the game, I won’t even pay for her
Not a drop of ho in my blood, that’s not in my nature
I’ma put a hole in your mug, the fu*k am I playing for?
Call yourself playing with pu*sy, then I’m gon’ shake ya

[Verse 3]
Matte gloss on my Vogues tires
12 racks for the 4-9s
(Matte gloss on my Vogues tires)
(12 racks for the 4-9s)
Desert Eagle weighs four pounds
Wish (??) would go down
H-Town n!gga, put on for the city
Tell you n!ggas wasn’t fu*king with me
Taking off like the Houston Rockets
N!ggas’ hoes, they coming with me
Thick thot, don’t wanna stop
(??)
Get the drop, one phone call
Have the shooters running up in your spot
Play with them, but don’t play with me
Keep a 9 and AK with me
In the trap, keep Ye with me
And two young n!ggas that stay with me
Mac-11 strapped when you see me
7.62s fly, chop the city
BG, cop a 3, 9601 GC
Baby sipping on syrup like sweet tea
Wockhardt mixed with Fanta
Watch the dash slow, headed to the capital
Real-life stepper, never been a rapper
Hairline trigger will erupt when I clap ya
Pull up on your block and make OG cower
I don’t really even need no strap
From the north to the south, got the city on lock
On some real G s*it, no cap, n!gga