Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Hol Fam, artist - Freeway. Album song Black Santa EP, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 17.11.2014
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Babygrande
Song language: English
Hol Fam |
| Team Early |
| Lot of Lexus' in the building |
| All different avenues, you smell me? |
| (Benji style, Benji style, Benji style…) |
| I got a lot of bars, I got a lot of burners |
| Hold it down for my niggas that’s behind bars |
| I got a lot of raps, I got a lot of straps |
| Got that 650 grand Coup, I’m a trap star |
| My beard big and it’s awkward, my voice different |
| They said it’d be hard to market and yet I cornered the market |
| Ten years later, I’m still here |
| And people whose careers started when mine started careers departed |
| I am, lion-hearted, I’m a a rare breed |
| I’m my father’s only seed, I’m my mother’s only offspring |
| Buck shot’s up in the Mossberg, boss things |
| My bitch got me feelin' like Sam Rothstein |
| I’m b’out to LA clip her, we all sinners |
| But the best of us sinners are those who are repent |
| Neck froze, wrist froze, and it’s barely even winter |
| On my caveman shit, about to hunt for my dinner |
| Come on! |
| We methodical with this shit |
| Straight up and down — nothin' flashy over here |
| That’s how we livin' - three the hard way |
| Three emcee’s doin' what they do |
| Nothin' fake here |
| My young boy gon' wreck it |
| From the Windy City |
| Ayo Sean — get 'em |
| Chyeah! |
| You see I’m in it for a reason, someone to believe in |
| Learned to swim quicker cause I got tossed in the deep end |
| My cousin was a drunk, and his father was a deacon |
| Nonsense made sense, let that there seep in |
| I’ve seen a prom queen never leave the nest |
| And end up with more babies than dudes she had sex with |
| I respect it cause I’m as real as it gets |
| And I’m a terrible liar, so what you see what you get |
| I’m living proof, of the talent that won’t tarnish |
| A monster, I’m fightin', I don’t do no sparrin' |
| My jeep got you wranglers looking so Brett Farvrish |
| Claimin' I’m a 'burbanite but don’t want no problems |
| Put it together like no other |
| Hungry as a child with no mother |
| Twelve brothers, reppin' the three fingers |
| Mind on a roof with no gutter |
| Knifin' through butter, watchin' my thoughts hover |
| Come on! |
| Chyeah! |
| We raining verbal terror on y’all fake emcees |
| Your squad ain’t tough |
| Y’all peon-ass cats |
| Talkin' 'bout y’all killers |
| Y’all 16 shots can’t match |
| This 50 in the clip right here |
| Real street niggas know what it is |
| Ayo Tek — spit at these niggas |
| Young nigga — fast lane |
| Usain Bolt of the crack game |
| Never gave a fuck and I still don’t |
| Home run show and I never bunt |
| No matter how much a money getter |
| You still looked at as a black nigga |
| I come through and I get salutes |
| I don’t even talk as much as my shooter shoots |
| I’m still looked at as a boss |
| I bounce back, after every loss |
| I take a minute but I’m still in it |
| I keep my family as my lieutenant |
| It’s so hard to trust outsiders |
| If I’m Clyde, who my Bonnie rider? |
| I just wanna count a million figures |
| And have the jails open up for my million niggas |
| Marchin' through your hood, stompin' on your projects |
| We the Lords of War — 'nough respect |
| Hello world — we made it |
| Come on… |