Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Paper , by - Freddie Gibbs. Release date: 18.06.2013
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Paper |
| With a mic, bitch, and I’m nice, bitch |
| Six rings, yeah, I’m on that Mike shit |
| But I hit her two weeks ago |
| Sip the drink, hit the reefer smoke |
| Sip the drink, hit the reefer smoke |
| Sip the drink, hit the reefer smoke |
| But I hit her two weeks ago |
| Sip the drink, hit the reefer smoke |
| On the mic, bitch, and I’m nice, bitch |
| Six rings, yeah, I’m on that Mike shit |
| Straight thug, nigga, most of my life spent |
| Was on that black top working that white, bitch |
| Shit, it was just 500 for the zip then |
| Got a plug and my homeboy chipped in |
| I was gunning, seventeen when I bagged up |
| Pyrex, work yo mo’fuckin' wrist in |
| Turnt up to be turnt down |
| It’s what the kush for, let’s get burnt down |
| I’ve got a muddy cup of that Texas dope |
| And that good smoke from that Oaktown, bitch |
| 100 pounds of the good, what it cost? |
| Hit 'em with the ski mask, they get lost |
| I don’t trick on these hoes |
| But I will pay your broke bitch to back up off me |
| Drop them drawers, ho, fuck all that talking |
| House on my neck, I call that balling |
| True shit, it ain’t shit like a new bitch |
| My old hoes, I don’t call that often |
| Drop them drawers, ho, fuck all that talking |
| House on my neck, I call that balling |
| True shit, it ain’t shit like a new bitch |
| Old hoes, I don’t call that often |
| I hit her two weeks ago, got head in the Jeep before |
| Straight bob with this sloppy top, man, this bitch was a freaky ho |
| Sip the drink, hit the reefer smoke |
| Hurry up, let me beat it, though |
| When she ask me to eat it |
| I told her, take it or leave it, ho |
| Cause this pimping shit in my bones |
| Million cash on my mind, bitch |
| Snowflakes on that stove, dope fiends on my line, bitch |
| Straight hand to hand, east side, on my land I’m the man |
| Learned how to chef up them cookies |
| Gotta let 'em just dry by the fan |
| We keep that chopped up in plastic |
| Gotta find a new place to stash it |
| Once I ran through my pack |
| Hit the club, balled out like a draft pick |
| Keep that chopped up in plastic |
| Gotta find a new place to stash it |
| Once I ran through my pack |
| Hit the club, balled out like a draft pick |