Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song They Think I Rap My Brother’s Life , by - Babyface Ray. Release date: 21.11.2019
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
They Think I Rap My Brother’s Life |
| Shh, yeah |
| (Damn E, this a classic) |
| Uh-huh, hmm |
| Yeah, ayy |
| What can I say? |
| Feel like we covered the board (For real) |
| Money marathon but I’m still running for more |
| These niggas tote straps but they still running from war (Why?) |
| They book me, I throw the money on the bitches, I ain’t wanna perform (I ain’t |
| wanna rap) |
| Yeah, we top-notch, breeze through blocks like hopscotch (Yeah, yeah) |
| On jet skis, use the Rolex as a stopwatch (Huh) |
| I got plots that’s waiting to blossom (Yeah) |
| I was mashin' in the foreign, top down, when Future dropped «Colossal» |
| (In Miami) |
| Go up on the scoreboard, cops come play possum (Who?) |
| Don’t confuse me with these lames, baby, we real mobsters (Real mob) |
| An erotic day shift, I just came for the lobster (Come on) |
| Rollie bought a new Rollie and it came with a chopper |
| I ain’t flexin', you should pace yo’self |
| We eatin' good but I’m still reaching higher, I just race my self (Only) |
| If I don’t give this shit a try, then I’ll hate myself |
| If I can’t shoot it with my youngin', I’ma take myself (Fuck it, I’ma go) |
| Gotta see it with my eyes, you wanna know what I know (See it) |
| And with the right cut, I can make eight outta four |
| I got the game in the palm of my hands |
| Niggas hatin', call me they man (Ah) |
| Like Livingston I’m ballin' again (I'm ballin') |
| Type to fuck yo' main bitch and never call her again (Never) |
| She the one tellin' all of her friends (Aha) |
| All that talking out of turn shit, dawg, gon' get us all in a jam (Shut the |
| fuck up) |
| The way I get it, they should call it a scam (Yeah, yeah), yeah, ayy |
| Money over bitches, nigga stick to the script |
| That’s real talk, my niggas rich from them scripts (Rich from them scripts) |
| Yeah, ayy |
| Money over bitches, nigga stick to the script |
| I’m in the club with the stick on my hip, yeah |
| I see the hunger in yo' face, my nigga, get you some chips |
| I ain’t got no car, he traffic bricks in the Lyft (Damn) |
| Will he make it out the streets? |
| Man this shit like a myth (I don’t know) |
| Don’t trust no ho 'cause yo' bitch on my dick, for real |
| O-eleven in the Audi with Lou' (Louis), we poppin' Xanax |
| Yo' bitch called drunk, wanna fuck, she leaving Annex (Come through) |
| I ain’t really trippin' 'bout luggage, shop where I land at (Yeah) |
| And I don’t really move 'less it’s cash, you understand that? |
| (Hello?) |
| Catch me in Kilwaukee in the Bentley with Van (Van) |
| Whippin' like it’s coke in the kitchen with 'Vance |
| Niggas' lifestyle ain’t really how they live on the 'Gram (Uh-uh) |
| I can’t name all the shit I done did for the fam (Round 'em up) |
| Yeah, Siobhan got her groove back, she in the Bahamas |
| I moved out but let my bankroll live wit' my mama (Count this money) |
| I’m hittin' corners when I go to the crib, this shit get hectic |
| Too many niggas know where I live, these bitches messy |
| Think my niggas getting watched by the homicide (Shh) |
| Red Moncler for my son’s mama right beside |
| I done fucked around and passed up the ones I idolize |
| Sixty-five for a thousand of 'em, seven hour drive (Yeah) |
| (Trey, Trey) |
| (Damn E, this a classic) |