Claires Back (feat. Conway the Machine, Benny the Butcher & DJ Clue)

World famous DJ Clue, Desert Storm (brrt, brrt) Westside Gunn (a yo) Y'all niggas frontin', man Y'all big homies ain't got no paper (a yo, a yo, brrt, brrt, a yo) We still spendin' money from '99 (brrt, brrt) Shout to Griselda (a yo, brrt) Let's go (a yo, a yo) (Griselda) How your big homie don't got no money? (Ah) Travis Scott factors, Armani rugby (ah) Rodeo, niggas in Ferrari buggies (skrrt) You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie? (Mmm) The niggas who used to love me don't love me (uh-uh) Got so much money, told that bitch "Don't touch me" (woo) A yo (ah) Got so much money, told that bitch "Don't touch me" (woo) A yo, Amiri high tops with the bones (with the bones, ah) You ever pull it out, you'd better shoot it 'til it's all gone If you make it back, you know it's on (you know it's on, ah) Name another rapper kickin' chopper on the phone (brring) Sellin' brick after brick after brick, I'm in the zone (ah) My nigga found God, now he in a cell readin' Job We on the rec yard, me Scoob like Ike and Stones (ah) Tell Ye we need to have Sunday Service in this ho Got the pole on me, make the wrong move, he's on the floor He took a headshot, now when he talk, he talkin' slow (ah) Drove bricks a thousand miles, no bad chromogenic Four hundred flat, I was gettin' money like that (ah) Get you killed for five thousand on a weekday Left Bennett, had dice games up in Pete Sake's More vintage, ECW, Sandman off the rope A yo, how your big homie don't got no money? (Ah) Travis Scott factors, Armani rugby (ah) Rodeo, niggas in Ferrari buggies (skrrt) You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie? (Mmm) The niggas who used to love me don't love me (uh-uh) Got so much money, told that bitch "Don't touch me" (woo) A yo (ah) Got so much money, told that bitch "Don't touch me" (woo) A yo That's fuckin' God, nigga (that's fuckin God, nigga) The Richard Mille on my motherfuckin' wrist, that's God, nigga (ah) The kilo on my other wrist, that's God, nigga (ah) The three kilos on my neck, that's God, nigga A hundred in each ear, that's God, nigga (woo) 30 thousand in my mouth, that's God, nigga And I still got about half a million somewhere else I don't even fuckin' put on no more, nigga (uh-uh) That's God, nigga See, I get offended easily (very fuckin' easily) Stupid bitch gon' ask me if I was a millionaire I got that shit in art, bitch (bitch) I got three cars that's a million, bitch (stupid bitch) I got that in jewels, bitch, I got that in clothes, bitch You do the fuckin' math (you do the fuckin' math) Eastside Buffalo nigga (ah) 0-5-5, free my nigga Sly (free Kutter, free Lo') Free Hot (free my nigga Cease) ah And this sport seems to just get a Little more violent every time I step into the ring Please, ladies and gentleman, here on Long Island Welcome the World Television Champion (Griselda) Brrt You know we still in the streets, nigga (brrt) Still gettin' money outside, nigga, look The scorpion and the scale, that's why they gotta pay us Violators still got old blood dried up on the razor (ah) Fry the yay up, got every Arm & Hammer box from the bodega Now I'm way up and I've run out of favors Hope y'all got y'all weight up (got your weight up, nigga) They try to score on us, we chase down, block the layup (ha) Yopper sprayer, y'all niggas is federal cooperators (hahahaha) Three money counters on the counter count my paper Hundred thousand dollar wagers when I'm out in Vegas (talk to 'em) My bitch hop out of a Bentayga, body like Teyana Taylor Sellin' dog, you know my product come from outta Venezuela (woo) Bricks of fentanyl for 40, I got za in different flavors (ah) Catch me rockin' all my jewelry courtside watchin' the Lakers (Machine, bitch) Bitch, my life's so beautiful Used to bag five eights, I had white in my cuticles (uh-huh) My shooter poppin' 30s, he must like pharmaceuticals .30 on him, ain't no tellin' what he might come do to you Cullinan, you know it's me, you see the white one movin' through (you see me, bitch) Got a beam on the stick Griselda, we the true and livin' kings of this shit (Griselda, ah) Fashion Rebel Purple Brand jeans with the stitch (uh-huh, uh-huh, you know that) It's Conway AKA the Machine, bitch (brrt, uh) This shit I learned in the trenches just made us felons (for real) Did a bid and when I wrote to the crib, she saved the letters When you come up and they don't get to eat with you, that make 'em jealous (pussy) You should only be concerned 'bout the paper we made together Sorry, I'm not sorry, block parties to yacht parties I'm a trapper, I answer first thing when the pot call me Speedin', doin' 60 over the limit in drop 'Raris (skrrt, skrrt) If I can't make brick money off it, it's not for me Land in your city private, you know hot boys do (Griselda) The driver on the tarmac, you know hot boys move (ah) In three Suburbans back to back, we bring the convoy through (bring the convoy though) I rode in five hundred horses without the cowboy boots, nigga (foreigns, nigga) My rep with the connect, that's what got me the work cheap I'm independent, still my numbers be solid the first week I'm the Butcher, niggas load up they Glocks when they heard me (brrt) I make December 25th feel like Friday the 13th When I told Def Jam my number, they said, "No problem" (okay, okay) Seven figures just to rap, it feel like I robbed 'em (hahahaha) I'm the truth, but ask these rappers and they gon' say I'm a problem And I get it 'cause I did it like Guy Fisher in Harlem, nigga (ah) Griselda The Butcher comin', nigga