Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Gold, artist - DJ Muggs.
Date of issue: 13.01.2022
Song language: English
Gold |
Aiyo shorty, yo that’s my word |
Oh, y’all smelling y’all piss now y’all think y’all gold |
Yo anybody get caught flinging over here |
I’m returning 'em, that’s my word they getting blasted |
Anything from 220 to 140, that’s mine |
Y’all need to step the fuck off |
Y’all niggas ain’t crazy for real |
Yo, the fiends ain’t coming fast enough |
There is no cut that’s pure enough |
I can’t fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload |
Product must be sold to you |
I’m deep down in the back streets, in the heart of Medina |
About to set off something more deep than a misdemeanor |
Under the subway, waiting for the train to make noise |
So I can blast a nigga and his boys, for what? |
He pushed up on the block and made the dope sales drop |
Like the crash in the Dow Jones stock |
I had a connect to cross-sales, to catch more mill’s |
Than ho-bitches got birth control pills |
I’m in the park setting up a deal over blunt fire |
Bum nigga sleeping on the bench, they had him wired |
Peeped my convo, the address of my condo |
And how I changed a nigga name to John Doe |
And while we set up camp, we got vamped |
Put the stake through his heart, I ripped his fucking fangs apart |
Snake got smoked on the set like Brandon Lee |
Blown out the frame like Pan Am Flight 103 |
He got swung on, his lungs was torn |
A kingpin just castled with his rook and lost a pawn |
A regular on the block that played lookout |
For preying predator with a Glock, he should have took out |
No neighbourhood is rough enough |
There is no clip that’s full enough |
I can’t fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload |
Product must be sold to you |
Fiends ain’t coming fast enough |
There is no cut that’s pure enough |
I can’t fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload |
Product must be sold to you |
It’s mandatory that I supply all my troops with mega firearms |
Big apes and spread 'em out like crops on a farm |
To get cream, sometimes they repaint the scene |
Like the last episode on gates, and other niggas |
Plant bombs till the smoke from the blast becomes thick |
And flows through, all they knew, he’s gun sick |
His Glock clicks like high-heeled shoes on parquet floors |
Mad sick, stand on hills and invade wars |
Filthy foul, shovelling dirt, he’s out to hurt |
For instance, chop off hands, attack worth |
His idols would lock down airports and extort |
Some import, catching ten percent of what the fiends snort |
Up in the ski resorts, up in hills |
They move keys and had the skis making drops on snowmobiles |
The plan was to expand, catch seven figures, release triggers |
And live large and bigger than my nigga |
Who promised his moms a mansion with mad room |
She died and he still put a hundred grand in her tomb |
Open wounds, he hid behind closed doors |
And still organizes crime and drug wars |
Fiends ain’t coming fast enough |
There is no cut that’s pure enough |
I can’t fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload |
Product must be sold to you |
No neighborhood is rough enough |
There is no clips that’s full enough |
I can’t fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload |
Product must be sold to you |
There’s no cuffs that’s tight enough |
There is no niggas that’s fuck with us |
I can’t fold, I need gold, I re-up and reload |
Product must be sold to you |