Lyrics Ain't Gonna Do - Blay Vision

Ain't Gonna Do

Why’s man acting dank?
You’re only a G around certain man
If I type in the postcode and it bangs
You will get left with more than a tan
Bun, man know me and the gang
Jump on the set, everyting get shelled
Average MCs don’t get prang
Just don’t be a target and everyting’s swell
Man chat shit, then everyting swells
Nose, eyes, everyting swells
Lip buss, everyting swells
Skrr out in the whip like well, well, well
I never came here to take man’s girl
But if she’s rating a man then shell
I’m not a reload MC, I shell
When the shells get reloads, man don’t yell
Man will get punched up, sent home
Mumbling things that he ain’t gonna do
He’s gonna kill Blay?
He ain’t gonna do
Rob my food?
He ain’t gonna do
Run up in my home?
He ain’t gonna do
Man got sent to the shops with the forearm
Man better go home, heal up wounds
Man can’t shell, don’t ask 'bout tunes
Man will get punched up, sent home
Mumbling things that he ain’t gonna do
He’s gonna kill Blay?
He ain’t gonna do
Rob my food?
He ain’t gonna do
Run up in my home?
He ain’t gonna do
Man got sent to the shops with the forearm
Man better go home, heal up wounds
Man can’t shell, don’t ask 'bout tunes
I know man that will marry your mum
Get a Visa, come to the country and dun your clart
Where do I start?
Man have been sick from the get-go
Everybody knows wah gwan
And if I say I’m gonna box man up
Don’t think faces aren’t gonna get harmed
I might put five gold chains on your neck
And then make my man walk through Farm
Nah, them man are smoking buj
Draw man out?
Man wish they could
Man have got fifteen-year friendships
That will run up in your yard with shells and juj
Run up in your yard with shells and pain
These mandem don’t know about shame
Box man down in front of his wifey
His son went home thinking «you're lame»
Man will get punched up, sent home
Mumbling things that he ain’t gonna do
He’s gonna kill Blay?
He ain’t gonna do
Rob my food?
He ain’t gonna do
Run up in my home?
He ain’t gonna do
Man got sent to the shops with the forearm
Man better go home, heal up wounds
Man can’t shell, don’t ask 'bout tunes
Man will get punched up, sent home
Mumbling things that he ain’t gonna do
He’s gonna kill Blay?
He ain’t gonna do
Rob my food?
He ain’t gonna do
Run up in my home?
He ain’t gonna do
Man got sent to the shops with the forearm
Man better go home, heal up wounds
Man can’t shell, don’t ask 'bout tunes
Mandem are losing themselves for the reload
Shouting out things that will get them bored
Fam, I am not here for the banter
We can even take this talk next door
When you hear me, just know it’s the realest
Man don’t flex like lyrical whores
Dem man there make tunes with suckers
Them antics, man can’t endorse
Nah, man better calm in the skin
God gave them before man bun it
Ten years deep, man can’t run it
Dead MCs, man’s all done it
Lord of the Mics, yeah, man won it
All from heat, man’s still gunning
Sixteen bars had man running
Got no youts, man’s still sonning
Man will get punched up, sent home
Mumbling things that he ain’t gonna do
He’s gonna kill Blay?
He ain’t gonna do
Rob my food?
He ain’t gonna do
Run up in my home?
He ain’t gonna do
Man got sent to the shops with the forearm
Man better go home, heal up wounds
Man can’t shell, don’t ask 'bout tunes
Man will get punched up, sent home
Mumbling things that he ain’t gonna do
He’s gonna kill Blay?
He ain’t gonna do
Rob my food?
He ain’t gonna do
Run up in my home?
He ain’t gonna do
Man got sent to the shops with the forearm
Man better go home, heal up wounds
Man can’t shell, don’t ask 'bout tunes