Credits
Lyrics
Yeah
Ayy
God body
You already know
My older bitch still hit the butterfly
Word to mother, Todd (Yeah)
Do you greasy like a burger fry
Still got the murder mind
Every time, notch top, ayy
Make the spot, ayy
Thick bitch, call her pop face
We 'bout to pop Ace (Let's get into it)
Potluck with my bitch on the lunch tip (Yo, ma)
I'm Ray J with my dick, I give her one wish (All she need)
Speak highly of the God when the tongue flip (I'm already knowin')
We ain't sellin' beats, but keep the drum kick (On my mama)
She said the moment now, done gotta hold it down (You already know)
Smoke you like you roll a pound, you got a stolen sound (Pussy)
My bitch, you know the body language (What's good, ma?)
Do a porno with my ho, make everybody famous (On my mama)
Provided by the realest involved (Ow)
Peewee was touchin' bread, then got hit
With a charge, ayy (Southside, my ****)
She tryna put my dick in a jar (What's good, ma?)
Got bread like new-new
You talkin' to the who is who (Talk to my face)
Shoot at your shit just like a movie view (Brrt)
Show me that pussy for a rack, ho, this Boosie boo (Turn that back)
Shoulders, chest, pants, shoes
Twistin' shit like bantu, you sweet like canned fruit (God)
Uh, it's Fizzle, uh
Shawty wanna big smoke when she big broke
Come to the crib, smoke her out, then she get poked
When I'm done, hit your porch and I light a Port'
Slide back inside like shawty gotta get ghost
Plug comin' through with some big dope
Head to the country, blow some gun smoke
Full body now with the 'stendo
Pull up on you pussies, where you been, bro?
Stumblin' on your words, what you fear for?
West side of the city where them Caddies got big spokes
We ain't on that shit, bro
Come up short on the pack, ****, get your ribs broke
I could give a fuck about your rap 'cause they Fizzle, bro
Ayo, yo
Clap papi up for runnin' his mouth and skated down South
Organize and bank the type of money that they dream about
I pet my pen and flip the style
If this shit get ugly, have my dirty self
Youngin' hit you off on the side, yo
Custom build chairs like Tony and watch the money pile (Montana)
I'm known to shake shit up, debatin' on the
Wraith or Rolls Royce truck (Double R truck)
Did it up like it's '88, Dapper Dan yellow seats, shit sweet
**** can tell that my paper straight
Might invest in you **** like it's Shark Tank
Big bank, big bread with small bank
Score a milli' a day just like I'm Frank
Wouldn't even want you knowin' my face
Customized, personalized grip restin' smooth on the safe
Future lookin' brighter than them suits worn by a mace
Might fuck around and make you **** leave town
Clip rounds by the surplus, record labels tryna serve us
We independently owned, I wish they'd curve us
Start a label on my flamboyant
Build the staff up properly
Can't no workers be stagnant and dormant
We on the incline like fitness
Take a trip, riskin' shit with the biscuit
Leave your style dry like Popeye's
Dump at one times if they plot on my demise
Fucker, East Coast
Written by: Christian Michael Cardoza
