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Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
King Von
King Von
Vocals
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Darrell Jackson
Darrell Jackson
Songwriter
Dayvon Bennett
Dayvon Bennett
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
ChopSquad DJ
ChopSquad DJ
Producer

Lyrics

(DJ on the beat, so it's a banger) Von Pull up and get him That bullet ripped through his tissue and tore out his gristle (damn) It was the nickel (what?), and it's a Glock And that bitch sound like a missile (boom, boom) He know I'm official Doin' all that woofin' and shit, boy, you know I'ma get you And when nobody with him I wore a nine, the shoes and can't nobody fit 'em (can't nobody fit 'em) I popped a Perky, a 30 I'm higher than a bitch, boy, ain't nobody perfect (boy, ain't nobody perfect) If I take a L, I'm back on that corner (huh? what?) I'm hustlin', ain't nobody servin' (ain't nobody servin') Get booked 'cause somebody workin' He told, I know that for certain Get caught, I'm closin' his curtains We scored another conversion (boom, boom) Designer, Givenchy All of this ice on my wrist and it feel like it's Christmas Speakin' of Christmas, come get your ho I be climbin' all up in her chimney We seein' the ho if she friendly Ain't see him, he goin', he missin' Won't see me in the back of a Bentley Hop out and I'm blowin', it's rented (boom, boom) Walk up, ain't doin' no drive-bys (nah) Your MVP, that bitch my sideline (nah, nah) Just a wild lil' nigga from the Southside (Southside) Nigga killed your homie, you don't even come outside (what? What?) Fucked your bitch on purpose Them bows came in, we workin' My song come on, she twerkin' All the opps be broke, they hurtin' My niggas, they too official (uh-huh) Send a text, they get right with you Y'all was somewhere playin' Monkey in the Middle We was tryna put on for some guns when I was little (boom, boom) If we still allowed, we gon' meet 'em and then split 'em On the jail call, gotta talk in the riddle Ho said she love me, she gon' tat my initials Nigga move foul, get to blowin' like a whistle (boom, boom) Fuck that, let's talk about Louis, Amiri, and Gucci and Prada and shit (boom, boom) When I go to the store, they closin' the door and bringin' me bottles and shit (yeah, yeah) Fuck that, let's talk about that lil' 150 I spent with my lawyer wasn't shit (gang) My gun don't punch, it kick (boom) Get with this shit or get hit in your shit (boom, boom, boom, boom) Pull up and get him That bullet ripped through his tissue and tore out his gristle (boom) It was the nickel (what?), and it's a Glock And that bitch sound like a missile (boom, boom) He know I'm official Doin' all that woofin' and shit, boy, you know I'ma get you And when nobody with him I wore a nine, the shoes and can't nobody fit 'em (can't nobody fit 'em) Walk up, ain't doin' no drive-bys (nah) Your MVP, that bitch my sideline Just a wild lil' nigga from the Southside Nigga killed your homie, you don't even come outside Fucked your bitch on purpose Them bows came in, we workin' My song come on, she twerkin' All the opps be broke, they hurtin' (they broke ass)
Writer(s): Darrel Jackson, Dayvon Bennett Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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