He's a hustler unbound by law, a self-made millionaire with a reckless disregard for the haters, ludicrous on Southern Gangster. A true entrepreneur, CEO of disturbing the peace records, he expanded his empire to multiple profitable businesses, including his Thai food restaurant, Straights, internet sites, WeMix.com, Internet of Things, and more. My favorite, myghetto.com, the MVP of this rap shit. I got gangstas that'll rearrange your whole face and put your casket on ice, now that's a cold case. Never forget where you come, or the block will ban you, I keep my ear to the streets like a cocker spaniel. I'll cock and blast you into outer space, break every bone in you. You so out of place, boom without a trace, you have left the block. I got some red beams, let's play connect the dots. He's the biggest boss, coming out of the MIA. Straight from the port of Miami to keep me a thriller, involved in many heated acts of violence. This goes deeper than rap shit, he's worth eight figures, so young niggas, boss up. I present to you, Rick Ross, the Boss. I got a letter from the government, the other day I opened and read it. It said we were hustlers, had a Lexus at 18, picture that. Got a Chevy with pictures on it from Pitch and Crack, bitch I know Haitians, we speak in Creole. Bitch I'm a D-Boy, still slinging kilos. I got 20 cars, why exaggerate? It cost me five grand just to fill the gas tanks, blood on marble floors. Got the Greek pillars, front net of wars, real street niggas. I used to serve shake, now I serve steaks. Three squares on the road, call it third base. Get the gas face, chop in your laugh face. Shoot his ass, same defense as the last case. Keep Jewish friends, the newest pens. You in the pool of blood, let me see you swim. Hailing from College Park, Georgia, authorities figured they must have been some sort of mob or illegal organization. According to authorities, they made a quarter mil a week, selling mid-grade. They were some high-rolling hustlers. Titty Boy and Dollar Boy play a circle, a.k.a. the Duffle Bag Boys. I'm so sick, I wrote this verse in a hospital. It's an election year, I support strippers. We roll like bicycles, icicle flow, white liquor. My niggas stay on line with the blow. I'm on time with the flow, not a minute nor a second late. Ain't no such thing as second place. And every day I lift heavy weight, you niggas featherweight. Fairytale telling niggas really need to take a break. And the estate got a lake for a backyard. The pool room pride, I put it all on my sash card. For real? Yeah, for real. I'm ill, I deal, I did, I will. I got dogs like Cujo. Me and Titty 2 Chainz riding in a 2-do. Bitches catch kudos, you know. Yeah, we move weight like sumos and kicks it with them bitches like judo. Southside! Play a circle. Rick Ross. Ludacris. This has been another episode of Suckin' Gangsta. Thanks for tuning in. What's next for Luda? Well, anything's possible in the theater of the mind.