What's My Name Songtext
von Fabolous

Guns up niggas
Uh, uh, uh, throw it up
Throw it up
BGS, you heard me?
What you want? (Uh) Fabolous (yeah)
We get it on (uh-huh)
Brooklyn don′t ever get it wrong
Yeah, uh-huh, yeah, uh, yo

Them niggas sitting in the couch
I sitting in custom models of fives
Keep opening your mouth and put a gun nozzle inside
Helis circle my house, Caprices follow my ride
Fuck with Fabolous, I doubt you'll see tomorrow alive
My niggas catch you with your spouse, spit hollows then slide
Leave your shit hanging out, clutching a bottle, St. Ives
Tell them put it in they mouth, bitch swallow your pride
When BGS coming out, clubs put bottles aside


Your girl glance then I bone her, leave ya mans in a coma
Ride around in half a G with a Branson aroma
Kicks always look new don′t walk the pavement too often
Play with my money your fam better be saving for coffins
I'm a made man, same one who sent out the hits
Make you rock vests, carry guns, ten out ya six
With the raw, baking soda get done in the base
And with the bitches drinks still get thrown in they face

It's the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh, uh-huh
It′s the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh, uh-huh
It′s the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh, uh-huh
It's the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh

I got one thing on my mind, nigga, I′m destined to blow
I'm not an MC who signed for a S and a robe
Rock button-down shine in my Wesson below
NYPD wanna find where I′m resting the blow
Get a dime, I don't smoke less than an O
Money looking too good, never the kind stressing a hoe
With your pay I wouldn′t rhyme in your shows
Y'all sell nickels, and every dime dressing your hoes


We pop bottles, my man just beat a temp on a cop
Tints, chrome, 30 day temps on the drop
Throw on hooded mink soon as the temperature drop
Limp through metrop' with a Ruger with an F on the top
Been in the game since I was throwing B-18
And these studs cost the same as that 318
.380 tucked in my size 38 jeans
Nigga, F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S

It′s the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh, uh-huh
It′s the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh, uh-huh
It's the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh, uh-huh
It′s the F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S, uh-huh

How you go from bagging coca and kicking mag in toasters
To a rap artist, a BM Wagon roster
How, with no album, videos, ads and posters
You got guns shoot 'em, what′s the point of having holsters?
Tell 'em bitches Fab and costa my name on the ave of sosas
Proud of niggas that you grab in doffer
What you know about having soldiers that′ll leave you on ave's and rovers
Sagging over, motherfucker

See me in a Z3 with a travelling chauffeur
Sipping cups of Hennessy without adding soda
Talk is cheap, but my vocals alone cost ten grand
Pop up to the hood mid-December with skin tans
These niggas wanna ride like the don do it
In clubs on the VIP side sipping don fluid
Act up they find your body outside of the conduit
Bruised up, with five of these Teflon Stewart

Fabolous, I keep some tucked on the waist
Baguettes in the band, princesses trucked on the face
Vance leather, fresh pair, constructions are laced
And I don't care if they cover girl, they getting fucked in the face

Yeah, yeah, Fabolous
BGS, throw your guns up
Uh, Desert Storm
Uh