Lyrics of 'Pour It Up (Remix) (feat. Young Jeezy / Rick Ross / Juicy J / T.I.)' by Rihanna

Say, Rih-Rih, let’s take this sh*t to the street one-time, you know?
Throwing hundreds like loose change (still got my money)
Got your broad in that Mulsanne (that Bentley, homie)
Seats whiter than cocaine (that 40 on me)
Got me and Chi-Chi, bring broads, mane
She like my homie

I’m King Tut with my gold chain
My partner with me, he the dope mane
Straight gassed, n***a, that BP
On that E40, that OG
These bitch n***as be acting up
These hoe n***as be acting foul
They’ll grind with you, they’ll shine with you
Be pointing fingers off at your trial
My Rolls Royce with my driver in it
Getting f*cked up ‘cause I ain’t got to drive
Got Kendrick on them bottles
Came and poured a swimming pool and we about to dive
Got one room, got three b*tches
And you’re damn right that’s where they’re supposed to be
Two glock 40s at all times
I’ll shoot back if n***as shoot at me, you know it

Ohhh…
All I see is signs
All I see is dollar signs
Ohhh…
Money on my mind
Money, money on my mind
Throw it, throw it up
Watch it fall out from the sky
Throw it up, throw it up
Watch it all fall out
Pour it up, pour it up
That’s how we ball out
Throw it up, throw it up
Watch it all fall out
Pour it up, pour it up
That’s how we ball out
That’s how we ball out
That’s how we ball out
That’s how we ball out

My foreign cars – domestic beefs
Peter Luger’s – the better seats
Dollar after dollar – bottle after bottle
Late for you haters even though my plane charter
Suede Bally shoes, true rude boy
Ferrari 400 horses, we do it for cool points
Baby, do the math – I’m copping Chanel bags
Talking Bell Harbour cigars for her mans
Know we run the streets, eating cold bully beef
Now we at the Grammys, Tom Ford to my feet
Boss on the avey, Rihanna screensaver
Whenever you see the fat boy, you know it mean paper

Juicy J pouring up codeine – Benz all white, no chlorine
Bad chick with me got as and titties
Freaky b*tch gon’ f*ck the whole team
Ziplock bag full of OG – I go in like a door key
Your girlfriend on both knees, she catch more balls than a goalie
Purple all in my sprite, I’m high as Denzel on Flight
Scared of money, don’t make no money
You n***as shaky like dice
I’m in the bed with your wife
We popping pills, we going hard
When she with you she a church girl
When she with me she a pornstar
Smoking on doobies like cigarettes
Which one of these strippers give head the best?
P*ssy so good that I think I’m in love
What am I saying? It must be the drugs
Pour it up, pop that ass out, make it rain, h*e
I’ll make it flood, shorty, you might need a raincoat

Strip clubs and dollar bills
Still got more money
Patron shots, can I get a refill?
I still got more money
Strippers goin’ up and down that pole
And I still got my money
Four o’clock and we ain’t going home
Still got more money
Money make the world go around
I still got my money
Bands make your girl go down
Still got more money
Lot more where that came from
Still got more money
The look in your eyes, I you know you want some
Still got more money
Pour it up, pour it up
That’s how we ball out
That’s how we ball out
That’s how we ball out
That’s how we ball out

I catch a case and I go to jail (still got more money)
I came home and went back over there (still got more money)
I’m multiplying everything I spend (still got more money)
These trap n***as I represent (still got more money)
It’s Hustle Gang and we popping
Got big bank rolls in our pockets
Hopping out a foreign vehicle
Throwing forty Gs, ain’t no issue, b*tch, b*tch!
I’m thorough as it get, official, b*tch, b*tch!
Better watch your p*ssy popping
I might wanna come and get you, b*tch
Now everywhere you may see me
Surrounded by bad b*tches like Rih-Rih
Got them booty shots, look like Nicki
Face and toes pretty, I’m picky
See these trap n****s, they on to me
And these rap n****s up under me
Ain’t nothin’ for me to get a hundred keys
And then stimulate the economy, like…