Nothing to Worry About

Do this thing, this type of thing
Put a little money in this type of thing
I’ve got nothing to worry about
I’ve got nothing to worry about
Speak in the third person, he don’t like it when he overlooked
Last year he was a cook, always been a crook
Handing money out, his palms are feeling itchy
You still a bitch if you bitch, b
He make the paper, never made he, seat laid back
In a five wagon, champagne, eat off rap
Twin angels made of porcelain
Prayer scripted on the black Steve Austin shit
Yo, you lost it, kid
Call my Peter Luger Junior, keen shop house in shorts
Island hopping, winter time
Pad Thai with the peanuts and the bitter lime
And shorty will take a shit on the chest of any stupid bitch that you consider
fine
He one of a kind off the couch
He piss standing up
He read books and write poetry
And he strong as a Samoan
Straight from Flushing and you know it, bitch
Negative, why always so negative?
If you have problems, why don’t you go solve them?