In "Project Steps," T.I. portrays a tough, uncompromising man from the streets, for whom respect, loyalty, and money are the main values.
He doesn't tolerate disrespect and is ready to punish it severely, regardless of the offender's gender
[Intro:]
Old habit die hard, huh?
Disrespect will not be disregarded, partna,
You cross that line, I'm goin off bout mine,
Man, woman and child, no exception, homeboy,
No disrespect will be tolerated come hell or high water,
You understand that? Ya bitch!
Bankroll Mafia, Hustle Gang over everythang, nga!
[Verse 1:]
I got fake bitches on my timeline,
Sucka ngas in my rearview,
Wonder why I'm even wastin my time,
Even replyin to letcha know I don't feel you.
Fuck 'em!
Dodging nothin' but a fed case,
Betta know it, tired of holdin on to dead weight,
Goin let it go,
And ain't no turnin round lookin back,
I swear to God Imma drop ‘em like cookin' crack
And sell it hard.
I'm a Bankhead nga to the heart,
Tote tools on the boulevard,
It's young ngas in a stolen car
With expensive ambition and exquisite pistols, we showin off.
Caught that line and we goin off
In Lenox mall, give a damn who you gon call?
You violatin, we ain't lettin nothin' go at all,
We demonstrate and leave your brains on the fuckin wall!
Puss, you disrespectful nga, got that,
I ain't never been shot at, and I ain't shot back,
Bossed up in a cool whip with a hot gat,
And still got stacks from back from “What You Know About That?”
[Chorus:]
I'm just a project nga on the front steps,
And gettin money is the concept
By any means, and the belt where the gun kept,
I let that whole clip ride till ain't one left in it.
Try me, Imma handle my business, handle my business,
Try me, Imma handle my business,
Try me, Imma handle my business, try me!
[Verse 2:]
I got fake bitches in my timeline,
Hatin ngas in my rearview,
I got naked bitches in the high rise,
On the balcony so they could get a clear view
Of the city with my dick up in it,
But in the morning won't remember which bitch is it, shit!
Ay, I'm too rich for this shit but I'm too real to be tried, nga,
Goin against me just like goin against God.
And I ain't gotta make excuses,
I don't fuck whoever, whatchu wanna do about it?
Thought not, fuck around, get crossed out,
You caught slippin, roll down on your ass, .45 start spittin,
Goin be a long day, nga I start trippin,
Don't be stickin to the script, drive-by audition, wassup!
Whatchu do for dough, guess you do it too slow,
And by the looks of your stuff, you ain't doin enough.
I'm poppin wheelies in the front, leave you in the dust,
Kick in your door masked up like, “Who in the fuck?”
Boy, you a ho, ho, not just a little piece of pussy,
Better watch your ass talkin, you don't know me, nga. Hold up!
[Verse 3:]
All I wanna do is go and chill,
Take my mind off the ones I wanna go and kill,
Yeah, I'm a daddy, love my little girls,
But I'll still check a bitch like ‘Pac did Lauryn Hill.
Hey, I ain't grow into it, I was born with it,
Used to sell crack to the children of the corn,
I'm the reason why your mama warned you,
Pray you don't die before you make it to the street corner.
