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