text: Where my straight jacket at? I’m a psycho
  Where that white blow? Why they copy my flow?
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  We don’t t-t-talk, talk to Five-O
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  Mister officer, mister officer
  I’m sorry I don’t wanna take a walk with ya
  Matter of fact, I ain’t tryna talk to ya
  We ain’t got no business, so fuck we talking for?
  There ain’t no need to bring me in for no interrogation
  Cause about that boy who just got shot, I got no information
  These broke ass snitch niggas still gram shaving
  At the precinct writing statements on which trap house is the station 
  Not I, tattle-telling is for homos
  Besides, thats the Number 1 Young Money no-no
  Police, we don’t chat with them
  We ain’t got no rap for them
  You in the cop car pointing niggas out from the back of them 
  Back seat informer, your papi shoulda warned ya
  You even tell PoPo I’m black, then yous a fucking goner
  Yeah you get high, but I get higher
  Manyana, I just might go to the halfway house and ask your supervisor
  Where my straight jacket at? I’m a psycho
  Where that white blow? Why they copy my flow?
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  We don’t t-t-talk, talk to Five-O
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  Yo… 4, 3, 2, cocka-doodle-doo
  I was out in Africa, Shaka Zulu crew
  Ho ho ho, red stockings too
  Coming down the chimney, youre chopped n screwed
  It’s me, bitches, F you snitches
  Gimmie the heebie jeebies, so excuse my twitches
  Excuse me! Lemme get that brewski
  Niggas know them bitches can’t do it like I dooski
  I just pull up, chuck the deuce in some blue denim
  And I just heard you running with the lieutenant
  I’m the mistress, I be in the District of Columbia
  Yes, uh huh, Washington
  Better ask around, cause I’m whats popping-ton
  I’m who they think about, playing with they pee pee
  Gotta count sheep, B, cause I’m never sleepy
  Yes, I’m the chief, you can find me in my teepee, bitches
  Where my straight jacket at? I’m a psycho
  Where that white blow? Why they copy my flow?
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  We don’t t-t-talk, talk to Five-O
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  Young Money psycho, straitjacket on me
  Break a nigga jaw if he turn to informant
  I bring it to your door step, loose lips sink ships nigga
  So I’ma bring you to the bottom of the ocean
  Uh, church, I hear you preaching like a fucking reverend
  Shouldve killed you in the first place, no second guessing
  Couldve killed em with the first and the second weapon
  DJ Unk em with the hand, I two-step and deck em
  Then I grab the choppa, blue flame Houston wreck em
  Kick a snitch head through a goal like David Beckham
  Make way, respect em, I could AK or tech em
  Ay, you looking at a gangster in his essence
  Now, bitch, bow down when a gangster in your presence
  Cause I’m God’s gift like a present
  For one, don’t try me I could give you two lessons
  You peasants get murdered if you do test em
  Gudda Gudda, biatch!
  Where my straight jacket at? I’m a psycho
  Where that white blow? Why they copy my flow?
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  We don’t t-t-talk, talk to Five-O
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O
  If it’s not Young Money, it’s a typo
  There them lights go, we don’t talk to Five-O