Dostępny w

Kredyty

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Yeat
Yeat
Vocals
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Noah Smith
Noah Smith
Composer
Volodymyr Dorofeiev
Volodymyr Dorofeiev
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Dkanee
Dkanee
Producer
Yeat
Yeat
Mixing Engineer

Tekst Utworu

(D-DKanee) Hol' up Bullets make you spread, make you dead, cut yo' head (hol' up) Pull up, ice is fled, no need no coupe, watch you sled (uh) Diamonds on my body, watch 'em dance and watch 'em flip (flip, skrrt) In a frog-eyed Bentley, pull off on the feds, hol' up (skrrt) I was just swerving and diving the feds (hol' up) Couple of pills and the blick in the whip, pull off on the feds, hol' up (D-DKanee) Cut off your motherfucking ties, your head, your neck, your motherfucking back (shh) Said I'm taking a break, but I pull up, lil' bitch, it's time to attack (woo) We aim for your head, if you gon' die, you die Chopper this big, yeah Chop up your wig, gon' chop up ya (shh, shh, shh) I'm in the Cullinan, pulling that bitch off the lot, I'm motherfucking telling ya Couldn't decide with the Benz, and if we not friends I never could tell ya (what? What? What? What? What?) I was just swerving the lanes in the motherfucking Benz, I never could tell ya (shh, D-DKanee) I ain't even fuck with nobody, I count up my money, I never could feel you (yeah) Yeah, I ran up my money to twenty Ms, bitch, I'm nowhere near you (uh) Yeah, I took this shit to outer-space, bitch, yeah, I'm nowhere near you (hold on, hold on) Yeah, I'm popping the X again, really I'm off of the hoes til' I feel again (yeah) For a little of faucet money, we can fill your bag, yeah, we can bring you in (ah) 20 50-50, fucking seven, yeah, security like the president (fucking seven) Everything on us designer, the watch, the frames, everything is elegant (yo) I really hate everybody, lil' bitch, I'm evil, call me fucking resident (D-DKanee, yeah) I mix the syrup with soda, yeah, and I had to mix it, lil' bitch (luh syrup) This shit like Hocus Pocus, tryna get your money, bitch, you turn to a fan (yeah) Pull up on advance, pull off with the mans I'm rocking a Birkin, bitch, it's no Hermès Yeah, do what I said, it still don't make sense I pop a hundred Perkies, bitch, when I land Pull up to Japan, they copy my trend I'm fuckin' my money, I flew it to France Hol' up, hol' up, I told 'em, "Do that shit again" (yeah) Yeah Pull up, ice is fled, no need no coupe, watch you sled (uh) Diamonds on my body, watch 'em dance and watch 'em flip (flip, skrrt) In a frog-eyed Bentley, pull off on the feds, hol' up (skrrt) I was just swerving and diving the feds (hol' up) Couple of pills and the blick in the whip, pull off on the feds, hol' up (D-DKanee) Cut off your motherfucking ties, your head, your neck, your motherfucking back (shh) Said I'm taking a break, but I pull up, lil' bitch, it's time to attack (woo) We aim for your head, if you gon' die, you die Chopper this big, yeah Chop up your wig, gon' chop up ya (shh, shh, shh) I'm in the Cullinan, pulling that bitch off the lot, I'm motherfucking telling ya Couldn't decide with the Benz, and if we not friends I never could tell ya (what? What? What? What? What?) I was just swerving the lanes in the motherfucking Benz, I never could tell ya (shh, D-DKanee) I ain't even fuck with nobody, I count up my money, I never could feel you (yeah) Yeah, I ran up my money to twenty Ms, bitch, I'm nowhere near you (uh) Yeah, I took this shit to outer-space, bitch, yeah, I'm nowhere near you (hold on, hold on) Yeah, I'm popping the X again, really I'm off of the hose til' I feel again (yeah) For a little of faucet money, we can fill your bag, yeah, we can bring you in (ah) 20 50-50 fucking seven, yeah, security like the president (fucking seven) Everything on us designer, the watch, the frames, everything is elegant (yo) I really hate everybody, lil' bitch, I'm evil, call me fucking resident (D-DKanee, yeah) I mix the syrup with soda, yeah, and I had to mix it, lil' bitch (luh syrup) This shit like Hocus Pocus, tryna get your money, bitch, you turn to a fan (yeah) Pull up on advance, pull off with the mans I'm rocking a Birkin, bitch, it's no Hermès Yeah, do what I said, it still don't make sense I pop a hundred Perkies, bitch, when I land Pull up to Japan, they copy my trend I'm fucking my money, I flew it to France Hol' up, hol' up, I told 'em, "Do that shit again" (D-DKanee)
Writer(s): Noah Smith, Volodymyr Dorofeiev Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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