Lyrics Contraband - Fred The Godson, Friday October

Contraband

I got the whole crew with me, ounces for 2 50
You could believe it or not, it’s far from ripley’s
Please don’t try to tempt me, the trigger I squeeze it empty
Homie fatigues at ease, you ain’t convincing be
I smoke good weed and get them packs out
Don’t look at me different, I came up out the frat house
High side weird look, and gazelle frames
Niggas know me by Friday October cold name
Back in the days that fiends doing the fuckin soul train
Ever since my little cousin put me on to the dope game
I’m just saying that I know thangs
I’m OG in these streets, I listen to Johnny Coltrane
Have that work for these hez, they call me raw game
In front of the peas, blowing trees with a gold chain
New York City greedy fifth’s on stand
Never know when you gotta use that contraband
My whole crew good with the pan
This is soul food, getting good amount of yams
Before you leave here, count your grams
Baking soda bubble that smuggle contraband
Contraband, this is contraband
I’m a monster with this money, this is contraband
I throw some packs to my man
Tell the law fuck taxes, this is contraband
I started off a young crack dealer
Now I’m all in the magazines
And all I knew is that hustle hustle by any means
Let me take em back from the start, back to my sonogram
Got to look up in my mama belly and found contraband
I caught em up town and then I checked em
He wasn’t living right, so my nigga left him
All these niggas living that life, till a nigga test em
Like all these bitches love me
We kick it like David Beckham
Crack music, hit maker,
Fred The God, October OZ was the beat maker
I beat the case what I feel for
Mama say she ready to fuck, what she need a pill for
It’s not a game when I will kill y’all
Hip hop is back to that era, era of real ball
And TVM was the movement
Let your pistol go or keep moving, it’s real nigga
My whole crew good with the pan
This is soul food, getting good amount of yams
Before you leave here, count your grams
Baking soda bubble that smuggle contraband
Contraband, this is contraband
I’m a monster with this money, this is contraband
I throw some packs to my man
Tell the law fuck taxes, this is contraband
Whoever know, my revenue pay from ex to dust
Something like a revenue
My leather new, I get 7 a scale
Learn to work with a bird like Kevin Mccall
I talk to these birds like Doctor Doolittle
I’ll pop you with a bird that doctor do little
Your block could do little, I ain’t doing the counting
But you re up with me, it’s just a pale of balance
And you see me every other week
You niggas is fucking weak
Get bread, not whole weed will pump a nigga
These little niggas take a whole week to pump a nigga
I’m talking quarters, halfs bein broken and chokin
I love my daughter’s laugh
When I do business with cash and earn that cake
Like the NBA draft, it’s just a sturdy handshake
My whole crew good with the pan
This is soul food, getting good amount of yams
Before you leave here, count your grams
Baking soda bubble that smuggle contraband
Contraband, this is contraband
I’m a monster with this money, this is contraband
I throw some packs to my man
Tell the law fuck taxes, this is contraband