Letras

Ayy, nigga we rep for real (ooh) In the trap house right now, I don't rap the peel Unc' got a big ass crib, he like Uncle Phil Man that's like two hundred and fifty racks when it's me and Phil (what up, Phil?) Left wrist, in the fake curry, man, that's Plain Jane (dirty rich) All my niggas got a Cuban stick, we on the same thing (for real) Bitch keep fucking with the help, fuck 'em with the rank (ehh, we cappin') Mad 'cause I done cut her off, 'cause we ain't on the same page (ayy, ayy, ayy) Niggas playing, they get hit up with the same K (bah, bah, bah) Shooter off the Addy, man, he been up for like eight days I just say whatever to the bitch, she think I'm runnin' game Hit the time, one day, I came out with a hundred K Large seven mile, off a seminary, it's just me and beer Next time you sneak diss me, it's from the cemeter' Four FOD chains on and my thing long Playin' with this bad bitch pussy with my ring on Every time you see mom, dude, she got designer on Boy yo' mama shoulda swallowed you or kept the condom on Plus I put her in that big house, got her feet up Gucci g'd up, Chanel bags, throwin' C's up My baby mamas ain't no prostitutes, both them bitches square But if I had a baby by my hoe, nigga, who would care? She done gave a nigga ten years, that's ten mill' Boy your nigga got ten years but he a snitch still It's like we still some lil' kids Still, we got big wheels (skrt, skrt) Drum, when you load it, gotta spin it like a windmill (grr) Make it play, I ain't got no service 'cause we in the hills Kick the bitch out after I fuck her, we ain't finna chill (ah) Me and Skiz up in Club True, got them thugs too Got them guns too, and a D, I got luck, true Told the bitch she better turn around, she wish she turnin' down I be with the turn around niggas who ain't gon' turn it down
Writer(s): Inconnu Compositeur Auteur, Philip Beasley Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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