Sorry T.I. (Ft. André 3000 & Stacy Barthe)

[Verse 1: T.I.]
My cup runneth over with pinot grigio, hol' up
You bogus in the Lambo if you ain't lifting the door up
You bogus poppin' pills if you ain't pickin the ho up
You bogus running out on your kids, my nigga, grow up
For God's sake, like a wedding, cutting large cake
For large stakes, let the hammer bang, broad day
Ayy, never mind what the blogs say
This what my mind and my heart say
My philosophy: profit off of my properties
Get it, flip it, we got to be rich, that broke shit is obsolete
Possibly off of my rocker, watch how you watching me
Sophisticated, psychotic, fly as a pilot
Officially solid, all you wish you could get—I got it
Unlimited titanium, nigga, what's in your wallet?
Out of gladiator college, I made it summa cum laude
Where you clowns couldn't have got a cap and gown if you bought it
I parlay with Saudis, buying crude oil and diamonds
Hustle January, July, fly to Dubai
A broke nigga telling me 'bout how I'm dividing the pies
Like a blind nigga telling me it's an eye for an eye
Bullheaded and stubborn, I'll be that way 'til I die
But find a nigga with more hustle than me—I dare you to try
And according to the hand on my Audemars (Audemars)
It's my time to shine, so fuck y'all (Fuck y'all)