Lyrics

You know why you came Why you wanna play these games? Don't be on that lame shit girl Tell them hoes you came with I pull up in the motherfuckin' coupe (In the coupe) All these bitches come around me, chicken coop (Chicken, yeah) I got 'em poppin' pussy, Uncle Luke (Uncle Luke) Everyday I live like it's a videoshoot (London On Da Track, bitch) Ooh, she know what she doin' (What she doin') Ooh, she turn out for the crew (The crew) I don't want them dollar bills, not the newest (Newest) Ain't no tellin' what she gon' do for the blue ones Sippin' lean like it's some berry Ciroc (Like it's Ciroc, nigga) Feelin' presidential like I'm Barack (Like I'm Barack, nigga) Bottles comin' 'til I tell 'em to stop (Yeah) Hold up, wait, stop So much money that I don't know what to do with it Still spendin' old money on these new bitches Long as you keep dancin' like that I'ma throw it, pop that pussy, now throw that ass back (Baow, baow) Don't be on that lame shit Don't be on that lame shit Tell them hoes you came with the same shit Don't be on that lame shit The wrong one to play them games with, girl What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (Don't be actin' lame) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (You know why you came) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (Why you wanna play these games?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) Don't be on that lame shit Hey, I'm blowin' doadie with the homies I ain't have no money, ain't none of the hoes know me And now my denims is full of the dirty doughy You really 'bout a bag, lil' baby, you gotta show me I'll pull up on my lonely, where ya at? Pull this thing over and thunder you from the back, ayy I made a quarter million in the trap I'm not a rap nigga, just kinda know how to rap The hooker finna overnight the pack It'll be there in the mornin', just tell lil' whoadie relax Yeah, bust it open for me, make it clap I'ma throw a hundred ones, then tell her to run 'em back Don't be on that lame shit Don't be on that lame shit Tell them hoes you came with the same shit Don't be on that lame shit The wrong one to play them games with, girl What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (Don't be actin' lame) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (You know why you came) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (Why you wanna play these games?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) What up, though? (What up, though?) Don't be on that lame shit (Yeah)
Writer(s): London Holmes, Timothy Patterson, Derez Lenard, Aubrey Robinson Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
instagramSharePathic_arrow_out