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