Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Talk About It , by - CamronRelease date: 28.08.2014
Song language: English
Talk About It |
| Call the doctor up, the jewels sick |
| Front get confronted, the tools grip |
| My gun stay long like a pool stick |
| I don’t need it, I could kill em with a toothpick |
| Like a bad hand, no prob. |
| folding em |
| Make em a golf course, 18 holes in em |
| Like a Jamaican shirt, 28 grams I could make it work |
| Straight to work, like amber stay alert |
| 'Fore I creep up behind you |
| Won’t see me coming like the swine flu, huh… times two |
| Remind you I’m way way worse |
| Like the FK, AK, trey 8 first |
| I tell mami «ohh display your purse» |
| Treat my dick like a sprite obey your thirst |
| Walk in the weed spot, Louie shirt, g-shock |
| Lennox Ave to d-block, we hot… oowww |
| My mom had 3 strokes, fell hard |
| No sympathys, flowers, get well cards |
| All swell god, no lost love Ak |
| She driving again, put her in soft spot |
| Gotta thank Tito Poppin, off top |
| Got her medicine, vicodins, cough drop |
| Now I’m back out, niggas jaw drop |
| Girls dras drop, glass say fuck em all ock |
| Hit em hard rocks, right in they soft spot |
| January 2nd until the ball drop |
| I don’t lobby for more props, I’m something that ya’ll not |
| Porsche hot, out in the ball park |
| The faucet leaking, I don’t play with leaks |
| Song get played early, break his teeth |
| I’m a fuck the nigga up that made this beat |
| Two piece, dope fiend, straight to sleep |
| I’m a keep it a hundred, these niggas don’t want it |
| Either a head shot or a bullet to the stomach |
| If you live, you’ll never fully recover from it |
| If you die, we gon pop bottles 'til we vomit |
| And nah, we don’t wear diamonds, we roc comets |
| My money came illegally, fuck it at least I’m honest |
| Finally bout to leave all the bullshit behind u |
| So right now death is the only thing I can promise |
| 40's and the lamas, we hitting everything except the shorties in pajamas |
| Shooting in the Miami heat, like Chalmers |
| Slugs make you feel like you rocking leather bombers |
| Somebody call the coroners, I’m a hustler did numbers in the drought |
| You at your moms crib for the summer on the couch |
| A lot of niggas suck, nothing to figure out |
| They put themselves in the hole, want you to dig em out |