Cam'ron:   Aw man, Flex called me about 10 minutes to 7   Told me he gon' put a lil' beef thing together   That's nuthin' man, we'll do this in 10 minutes   I got man A.R. with me   Y'all know him as J.R. but I call him A.R.   Cuz the boy'll air ya out in 4 seconds B   Ay yo Writer, let's go   Funk Flex, Writer's Block, let's go      J.R. Writer:   Let's have a pep talk, never my check short   I hop in the Lex sport and pop up on West 4th   Know my next thought, what you ever extort or ex bought   Raised around them homos and escorts   I'm a bet dork, you never seen me lyrically   I wet dog and step off, you better do your history   I did my history, this kickos done   Before Cock-A-Fella nigga, he was Jim Jones' son   What's the big ol' front, like ya swag ain't confused   I remember he was doin' bathrobes for shoes   This fag HOV is rude, my cash flow is huge   You suck, what the fuck, all your rap shows get booed   It's murder, them dogs'll pop up with them burners   You worker, your boss is washed up like a surfer   The nerve of the server, I'll hurt ya   Ya Made You Look was a fake Neptune track wit' a Jamaican hook   You's a waste of push, how can you offend R   Ridin' in the wind star, lying like you been hard   You never been scarred or rised teeth so why beef   I ain't Mobb Deep, them niggaz 5 feet   I put you guys deep in ditches, hit with 4   Critical, Jigga know, that's why we dig the hole   Dig it, ho, we squeeze rounds, pop (pop)   You so fuckin' wack you make Bleek sound hot   So ease down ock, you wouldn't kill squat   You're on the Roc cuz they had to fill a mil spot   You getting bills, stop   Why lie you prick, you's not as rich   Only time you get scratch is when you got an itch   I'm talkin' dollars, chips, some'n you don't see you fronter   So call us crack anonymous cuz he ain't seeing numbers   Get the picture, you dirty little nigga   HOV got you on the back burner like a trigger   Who's sicker or slicker, I'll rip ya with one line   One rhyme, dump mines   Make them bitches crunch-time   Come at the Don I'm dumpin' them arms   Ya whole tape trash and it took you months to respond   This pawn stylin' on who, I wild wit' a few   Who would wanna here a whole fuckin' album of you   It's true, and true, I will make you my lunch   You been signed a while now, ain't hit radio once   They ain't playing that junk, if you gave it to Funk   Just to get spins you gon' have to pay every month, chump   I ain't forget you boss, Jigga Jigga what   He down at the office gettin' fingers up his butt   One of his workers told me how he really gives it up   How he really is a smut and he feminine as fuck   Yup, mention us then I'm spraying on targets   All Tru-Life fans is just waitin' on garbage   This ain't J.R. hardest, you ain't even Roc   You Roc La with the damn Reggaeton artists   Your mouth is gettin' runned, I'm 'bout getting 1s   Your my son, you ain't comin' out like your gun   You're done      Cam'ron:   Leave him alone A.R.   I ain't even know who they was talkin' about   I just looked the fool up on the Internet   He look just like Jim Jones, I'ma call him L.J., Little Jim   And another thing, turn the beat off   I seen the most amazing thing   Jay-Z in Africa, a camel on a camel   I wanted to call the Guiness Book of World Records   I never seen a camel on a camel   BET, Jay-Z in Africa, a camel on a camel   Watch it   (Laughs in background)