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?