| A nigga like me man, I love the game, I love the hustle man
|
| I be feeling like one of them ball player niggas you know
|
| Like Bird, Magic or something
|
| Yeah you know a nigga got dough
|
| A nigga can leave the league
|
| But if I leave… the fans still gone love me man?
|
| I get love out here in Harlem, man
|
| I done sold coke on these streets, man, hash, weed, heroin
|
| As long as niggas is feeling it
|
| A nigga like me could hustle it
|
| (Griselda, by Fashion Rebels)
|
| The yak in my cup, the MAC is tucked, what
|
| I’m Sticky on Bacdafucup
|
| I keep the blinky since
|
| Them niggas clapped my truck up
|
| The wax had me gagging after one puff
|
| I remember bagging jums up
|
| Now it’s a half of one stuffed in the trunk
|
| I stack my funds up
|
| Call my savage and have his gun bust
|
| Then they find you wrapped in plastic in a dump truck
|
| Fuck, only built Diadoras
|
| I pull up with a bitch, they thought it was Rita Ora
|
| My lil' head buster keep his tool ringing off
|
| Got two bodies this summer
|
| He said he needs some more
|
| Highest grade marijuana
|
| Directly from the farmer
|
| My enemies is all goners, guess it was karma
|
| Trauma, four keys in your baby mom’s Elantra
|
| Big ass gun like something out of Contra
|
| Uh, don’t make me spray a nigga
|
| Bodies drop if I okay it, nigga
|
| You know how I play it, nigga
|
| Red October Ye' a nigga
|
| Loud moving slow I had to yay it, nigga
|
| Still ill when I write it
|
| When they don’t name me top five I feel slighted
|
| Niggas be talking but when I’m around they real quiet
|
| You can pray to Jesus all you want
|
| You still dying, motherfucker
|
| Ayo, this the second coming of Christ
|
| Hervé Léger flight jacket, MAC on sight
|
| All red Geiger’s on, stomp you to death
|
| Yeah, you got designers but you rocking it left
|
| Need a new plug, prices getting outrageous
|
| Shot the thirty off, my nigga wasn’t even aiming
|
| Pink lemonade Porsche Cayman
|
| Low Margiela’s looking like a nigga painting
|
| Patience a virtue, my youngins’ll murk you
|
| Ink on the Balmain blazer and the shirt too
|
| Shotgun like Peyton
|
| The Flygod but the all red Yeezy boot’s Satan
|
| Eyes out, gloves on weighing
|
| Cameras on every light pole, woah!
|
| Life’s so great they say a nigga sold his soul
|
| Praying Rex get us a Super Bowl
|
| Bust out the gate
|
| The wrist froze from flipping O’s
|
| You know the rules
|
| Let the jewels go smooth
|
| They never should have sold you dudes Pro Tools
|
| These old dudes let the hoes choose
|
| Nigga your shoes is overused
|
| I hear the fat lady singing that bitch can hold a tune
|
| It’s been said I’m god in the flesh, I had to show and prove (show and prove,
|
| god)
|
| My sneakers is literally from Italy
|
| Leaned on the 'caine, thought it was muscular dystrophy
|
| A hundred shots your Hilfiger look like a fricassee
|
| Who you think you Mr. T? |
| Mitch Green?
|
| Or the new Richard Roundtree? |
| (Please)
|
| You found in Queens with your shit twisted like it was ground beef
|
| A few niggas in town grieved
|
| Variegated paint on the i8
|
| Obviously you see that I ate
|
| Don’t think I’m like these other rap niggas 'cause I ain’t
|
| I’m pie rated, you got pie in your face
|
| Denim in supplies for flyweights
|
| You can’t buy taste, we looking at you sideways |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Rex Ryan , by - CONWAY THE MACHINE. Song from the album Reject 2, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп