Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Four 12s, artist - Chuck Inglish. Date of issue: 17.12.2013
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Four 12s |
| Four 12 kickers like it’s ‘94 |
| Pop the trunk on em like it’s duffle dope |
| Keep a million units, I could see to it |
| Get the boulevard juckin like a thick booty |
| Uh uh uh do it |
| GO track a rap, trappin out of the Suzuki |
| Fall back, boys know exactly what I’m doing |
| In the Vera Cartiers and the Patrick Ewings |
| Drop top with a chow chow puppy |
| And my girl in a bikini top, breakin down the tuck |
| Way she rollin coulda swear we’s going bowling |
| If I can’t wear shorts then a nigga not going |
| Triple gold rims, not stolen |
| Twine got 5 cellphones on er, how you want it? |
| Call me up if you want that plug |
| If not, don’t trip, we’ll get back up |
| (Hook) |
| Uh uh uh uh uh we’ll get back up |
| Uh uh uh uh uh don’t trip, we’ll get back up |
| (Verse) |
| I’m the coldest, stack it til a nigga can’t fold it |
| Rolled in with a bitch from Beverly, she said she rollin |
| Twistin up a blunt, sprayed I got 4 |
| And then I filled her 3 holes like I was pullin |
| 2 texts on my phone by the time a nigga dippin |
| Trippin ‘cause I fucked er, my Jordan one stitchin |
| Faded the limp, one brought up on hustle and pimpin |
| These messages get ignored if it ain’t about no digits |
| What’s the deal, dawg? |
| I’m tryna touch a couple mill though |
| Fuck a ounce, I’m tryna see how much it feel cold |
| I’m Sam Rothstein, clean, grab the shakers |
| In LA for months, I still won’t bet on the Lakers |
| Head cracked, run it back, wutchu sayin? |
| Hold ‘em baby, sucka niggas never playin |
| I’m getting head while I hit my bud |
| I’m in her mouth and then I’m out, we’ll get back up |
| (Hook) |
| Uh uh uh uh uh we’ll get back up |
| Uh uh uh uh uh don’t trip, we’ll get back up |
| (Verse) |
| I said baby girl «I do drugs» |
| Smoke dope and sell dope |
| Bitch I’m from DC, have the sexies off that cellphone |
| My motherfucker wire tapped |
| Nigga owe me money cross the country, tell em wire that |
| Fire that, fat breezy full of tracks |
| Loud pack, only smoking killa, hoe |
| Run in May season, Compton killa low |
| Fly shit, 88'ers on him, such a pilot |
| I do my own stunts, lil nigga don’t try this |
| My old bitch a dove, she got a new nigga |
| Happy for em both, I just made a few figures |
| Off the motherfuckin trap though |
| Walkin through the front but I’m leavin through the back door |
| Asshole, put that on the regular |
| Rollin Keisha, never smoking regular |
| Never bruh, never us, only smoke that pollside |
| Get you high enough, high enough to go salute God |
| Yea that’s death nigga, blow a ses nigga |
| (Hook) |
| Uh uh uh uh uh we’ll get back up |
| Uh uh uh uh uh don’t trip, we’ll get back up |