Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
What's your rank, kid?
Bitch, I let them pistols talk come and speak my language
It's too crowded up in this bitch, no Russian, the banquet
Send your soul right back to the lobby, I make him rage-quit
Your pockets too weightless, life been getting too plain, son
I'm thinking 'bout bringing your bitch to my crib hip thrusting her face, tongue and all
Y'all talk, but can't hurt a damn fly you cowards ain't dangerous
Put some hair on your chest, if you feeling upset, pussy boy, come say some
You ain't safe as you guessed boy that bulletproof vest still a get your brain bust
Soon as I wake up, I grab my strap load up two mags and count my cake up
Your bitches face stuffed, right in my domain punk
Got a problem, I break my goddamn fist right across your face punk
I'm back in my mood, too grumpy like Scrooge
Trim some off top peel his head back smooth, attitude on rude
Better keep that stick tucked 'n' I advise you don't disobey
That MK4 slide side to side as I hit the break, while a bitch complain (yeah)
They ask me how the fuck you make it, bitch?
I did it, I just did it (I just did it)
Make her rage-quit, pistol hitting in his liver
I was 17 with cribs and whips and no I did not win it
I get high as fuck, you see me fly as fuck, you cannot be me
Don't slide with me, I got a .45 line with me
Cut ties if you lie to me
From the 702, cop a LV, up a LV
Couple thousand every time I leave and don't talk
You sound like a ho look
Whole time I was down here with no none
Now I got seven figures in the bank
Double R with a range
Now you come to my show look
Who to think, who to call, who to blame? Uh
Who ain't come around once, who the fake? Uh
Did this on my own, I don't care about the fame
And I don't need no hand to hold
I hope that pistol let it bang
Who to think, who to call, who to blame? Uh
Who ain't come around once, who the fake? Uh
Did this on my own, I don't care about the fame
And I don't need no hand to hold
I hope that pistol let it bang
What's your rank, kid?
Bitch, I let them pistols talk come and speak my language
It's too crowded up in this bitch, no Russian, the banquet
Send your soul right back to the lobby, I make him rage-quit
Your pockets too weightless, life been getting too plain, son
I'm thinking 'bout bringing your bitch to my crib hip thrusting her face, tongue and all
Y'all talk, but can't hurt a damn fly you cowards ain't dangerous
Put some hair on your chest, if you feeling upset, pussy boy, come say some
You ain't safe as you guessed boy that bulletproof vest still a get your brain bust
Soon as I wake up, I grab my strap load up two mags and count my cake up
Your bitches face stuffed, right in my domain punk
Got a problem, I break my goddamn fist right across your face punk (yeah)
Comments (0)