If you’re havin’ girl problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one I got the rap patrol on the gat patrol
Foes that want ta make sure my casket's closed
Rap critics that say he's "Money Cash Hoes"
I'm from the hood, stupid—what type of facts are those?
If you grew up with holes in your zapatos
You'd celebrate the minute you was havin’ dough
I'm like “Fuck critics—you can kiss my whole asshole
If you don't like my lyrics, you can press fast forward”
Got beef with radio if I don't play they show
They don't play my hits; well, I don't give a shit...so
Rap mags try and use my black ass
So advertisers can give ‘em more cash for ads...fuckers
I don't know what you take me as
Or understand the intellegence that Jay-Z has
I'm from rags to riches, niggas—I ain't dumb
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
Hit me 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
If you havin’ girl problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 p