| Uh, fuck the fame we only came for the bread
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| Told my homie it’s a bonus if you aim for the head
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| You point a gun at him he gon' say that ain’t what he said
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| Plus the clip in it long as Wilt Chamberlain leg
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| Lost some homies, spent a couple birthdays in the feds
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| I met plugs, not just thugs, I met Haitians in dreads
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| You know the kicks that I’m lacing are red
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| You blazing up reg, tension thick
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| You tasting the air, I’m blatant you scared
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| Ridin out for my team, watching out for the D’s
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| You ever stashed work in a house full of fiends?
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| You n----- just rapping, I’m about everything
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| Need shooters and captains when you scout in a team
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| Time is money, and I’mma need an hour or more
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| I leave the trap smelling like gunpowder and raw
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| I’m having nightmares they raiding, huddled out in the hall
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| Same time i was flushing, they was pounding the door
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| When you tryna get shit, you ain’t used to having
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| Might run into some problems, might use some ratchets
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| Might run into some cops, wearing suits and badges
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| Never speak on what you saw, if you do you ratting
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| Real legend, and I’m still plugged in with criminals
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| You catch a case, pray the judge give a minimal
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| I send it through your loved ones when they visit you
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| I live in a town where the love ain’t reciprocal
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| Rock your enemy to sleep like the drama dead
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| Then walk up on him in a Rasta wig
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| Who held the city down like a boat anchor
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| I got smokers in the room burning coat hangers
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| Smoking on sour, mixed with cookies
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| Revenge is the sweetest joy next to getting pussy
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| I treated the kitchen like chemistry
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| We unwrap em then we bag em individually
|
| (end chorus)
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| My intentions was good but the money was evil
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| cutting diesel, laying up in casinos
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| I got a hundred clips a hundred straps, none of em legal
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| Tell on you, brick of C4 under your Regal
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| Paid since i seen Nino, shit went out with them Guidos
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| You the type to get your shit took and run to a CO
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| I’m the type to get your shit pushed and run to Toledo
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| It’s like I was, bred to be great, so this bread could get baked
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| Or your head i just take, my hand on this 8, like a man out his Bape
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| These rap n----- get more weird by the day
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| I wake up like. |
| what the fuck I’m gon' hear bout today
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| I was still in the hood serving fiends like CVS
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| Bracelet on my ankle that’s a GPS
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| They ain’t beat me yet, fans still ain’t meet me yet
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| JAMES BOND HOPPING OUT THAT ASTON MARTIN DBS
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| When you being mentioned with the baddest who spittin'
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| Average n----- hating, ain’t you so they had you the villain
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| Mad in they feelings, probably cus' the talent ain’t in em
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| Not only that though, the passion ain’t in em
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| Take it from me, look
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| My life way deeper than bars and hooks
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| Pawns and rooks, this shit really hard as it look
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| If walls could talk, they tell you how the raw was cooked
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| And how we got to be stars from cooks
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| My first brick, uh
|
| Rock your enemy to sleep like the drama dead
|
| Then walk up on him in a Rasta wig
|
| Who held the city down like a boat anchor
|
| I got smokers in the room burning coat hangers
|
| Smoking on sour, mixed with cookies
|
| Revenge is the sweetest joy next to getting pussy
|
| I treated the kitchen like chemistry
|
| We unwrap em then we bag em individually
|
| (end chorus)
|
| Yeah
|
| You already know n----
|
| You already know walls closing in on n----- man
|
| Yeah
|
| It’s me
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| It’s me
|
| I ain’t tellin' my story in third person
|
| Naw
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| I’m hands on
|
| I’m hands on my n----
|
| Yeah |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song .762, artist - Benny the Butcher. Album song My First Brick, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп