Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Sayin' whatever, artist - Blended Babies. Date of issue: 29.10.2014
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Sayin' whatever |
| And we just sayin' whatever |
| And we just sayin' whatever, boy |
| And we just sayin' whatever |
| And we just sayin' whatever, boy |
| It’s the BU-double-double, so you know you’re in trouble |
| Nothing subtle, I’m a rebel, flow is water |
| Watch me kettle, I put the barrel to your finger |
| Then I call it bloody knuckles |
| And I’m hungry, so I eat you like you Ruffles |
| Then I chuckle, I’m |
| Ballin' on you suckas, neva have to call it fumble |
| Never stumble, neva tumble, if you want to, we can rumble |
| I’m underneath the water snorkelin' |
| Y’all snugglin', sippin' on a bubbly because I’m finally bubblin' |
| Oops, I didn’t mean to rub it in, y’all strugglin' |
| All my money doubling, I’m flyin' out to Dublin |
| We comin' in and stuntin' it and doin' it right in front of em |
| Rollin' another blunt and then blowin' smoke like the government |
| Uh, simmer down, homie, I ain’t the one |
| Roll a pound, of the loud by the mouth to the sun |
| Hot, back back, matter fact, back down |
| Backpack, full of cash, till I put the bag down |
| Gimme all that |
| And we just sayin' whatever |
| And we just sayin' whatever, boy |
| And we just sayin' whatever |
| And we just sayin' whatever, boy |
| It’s that A-S-H-E-R-O, arrows to the apple |
| Tackle apples, by the Adam’s apple, grapple |
| Wanna wrestle, in the back yard of my backyard |
| Master of the atar |
| Head be turning faster, when we pass em, buy a fast car |
| Small margin of error, mind over matter |
| Mirror images of each other, cousins, brothers and lovers |
| Hiding under covers, like we some thunder buddys or sum' |
| Thumpin', bumpin', jumpin' up for a hug |
| One in the oven, husbands bummin' |
| Cause they got handcuffed, to the rug? |
| I be fuckin', gettin' drunk, fuckin' bitches doin' drugs |
| On some hungry hungry hippo, get a grip |
| Keep it simple, wrinkle, that’s a nipple |
| Let it slip, size of a nickle |
| No fives, go fish, blow chips, on some oh shit |
| Goin' slower than a bower, lower onto both lips |
| Oh, shit, girls go 'grose, he’s so hipster' |
| Holla at yo sister, listen to miss, mister |
| Christal Billy film me, the Beverly Hills |
| Illest Billy, be really still, killer kills |
| Heel of Achiles, is real as Philly’s, Gillie the Kid |
| Get fortunate, portion unproportional |
| Of course, I’m never forcing it |
| Get my fortune, from the fortune cooks |
| Good looks, shook tooks, plus this |
| You know any good books |
| Cuz I might adopt a dog, and that bitch say he’s cornpop |
| Pass the popcorn, in the dorm, hit the porn shop |
| Pork chop, course four, pour many more shots |
| Warn shots, comin' for your door, through a shortcut |
| War Sucks, poor sport, tore polar vortex |
| Working on my car, when I force, more more flex |
| More checks, more sex, much more re-spect |
| C-sects, X-X-L, like he next |
| Please B, I been on, head on and head strong |
| Put a hundred and ten percent, on everything I get |