Lyrics Home - BJ The Chicago Kid

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Uh, Lebron number nine
I guess whenever she ain’t on my dick, I’m on her mind
It’s quite cliche to just say that I’m on my grind
And phone conversations ain’t substitution for time in another city
Reminisce on days when I ain’t have a fucking penny
These groupie bitches in this game wasn’t fucking with me
Couldn’t get a dollar for a rap show
Got a gun, a ski mask and a half an ounce of crack, though
Slammin', in the pizza shop with Jacque
Last dollar on a slice, this contraband in my sock, wish you knew the feeling
We’re both so different, but our situations so appealing
Now I can’t make it without you girl, you my new religion
And every hustler needs a main thing
Baby, once I get it I’mma make your last name change
Uh, said every hustler needs a main thing
Baby, once I get it I’mma make your last name change
Gibbs, uh
We still socking
Glock is still popping
Paper still dropping
Lord, it ain’t stopping
Girl, I’m coming home, as soon as I get this paper
Yeah, the blocks still cracking, and girl, know what I’m packing
And if you pop off, you gon' know what I’m jacking
But I’m coming home, as soon as I get this paper
Ayo, summertime, 105°
Getting mine, the smoke line
They want the kush, the Cali kind
I smoke with' her, I choke with' it, get dosed with' her
A go-getter, helped me come up from a broke nigga
The home team
And she ain’t just in my pocket, she got her own cream
Sometimes I slip at the mouth, I might say the wrong thing
And once we fight, it’s back to fucking
My polos and my timbos out the window, but its nothin, what
Uh, said once we fight, it’s back to fucking
I bend that ass right over on the sofa, like it’s nothing
So bust it open for a player, nose to your fucking toes
I’m coming home, don’t be tripping on them other hoes