Roasted (feat. Trademark & Young Roddy)

It's been a minute let me get with it, as I roll up Niggas been waiting on trade like whats the hold up My only mission in life was to blow up They ask what I throw up, you know what I rep and I'm one of the best Supervillian in the building I'm clearly a threat Been doing this here for a minute considered a vet A lot of niggas want me to fail cause they know that I'm next That's damn near impossible this game ain't got rid of me yet I fell of and I crawled and regaining my steps This time around I'mma give all till im gaspin for breath I stay silent on a lotta shit quiet is kept But I dont know too many niggas with silent success So I write it all down to get it off my chest The weed we break it all down to get off the stress Niggas hate, fuck 'em, cause they know that we the best It ain't my fault I do this shit breakin a sweat I'm just laid back chilling posted, living like a villian mostly High off this purple shit, no lie I'm flyin I'm so roasted Money, bitches, Testarossas, Veuve-Clicquot, few mimosas Bring them thru my ups and downs life is like a roller coaster The more I smoke the smaller the doobie get They takin shots at the jets on some John Woo movie shit All blanks I'm unscaved untouched on my way to the bank, what the fuck? For tryna play Spitta you shall forever remain Without a name, lames know what I claim Upset they all throw up my set from the sunroof of my car Seats butter baguettes Bitches cumbling nuggets I'm feeling lovely and blessed Tribeca at Bubby's I'm enjoying a lemon press not that Minute Maid crap They squeeze these lemons they selves The hearts of women melt when Trilla lyrics are felt Olympic swimming in bitches Micheal slash leon phelps High bread weed money tree slang for dummies Get it crackin like lobsters ice vodka and the bong's bubblin' Me with a record deal yea they said I couldn't get it My homie Ferris told me you couldn't hustle for a living but That Richard Porter money had a nigga driven And word to my nigga Stan I was bugging for a minute but Look how the tables turned, they still spinning The homie flew me from Kenner to N-Y city yea My uncle told me let the sky be your limit I was cool with a kid in the kitchen who was a chemist yea And far as bread, mama told me make plenty So it's money in my bank account and money in my denims yea In high school them girls used to blow me kisses But it's money over bitches, Roddy all about his Benjies Shout out to Spitta, they wear us out like Fendi Let's hit the Chi where the weather much windy but But me I'm from the dirty, the dingy, the south Where everywhere we at we smoke it out