| Tell me it’s lit, just pull up and sell me this shit
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| I bag a half in three-point-fives with no scale in this bitch
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| You know how I play it, I press a button, your helmet get hit (Boom, boom, boom)
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| Ridin' through, magazine tall as a elf in the blick
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| Beef in the air, I smell fear, I can tell you was tense
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| Had to drop, but let you slide 'cause I could tell you was bitch (Pussy)
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| I stayed in the suite for so long, I got mail at the Ritz
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| We bettin' on dice like the NFL on the strip
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| I run in the club, bump into plugs, I fell on a brick
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| Only Tom Brady get more rings than my telephone get
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| This for the Ps and my co-Ds, I’m a federal wit'
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| My lawyer told me to breathe, them charges never gon' stick, let’s go
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| Ayo, we was baggin', some big nigga came through clappin'
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| I ducked behind French, got the MAC and started (Brr)
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| He just got home from doin' a stretch, nobody put him on
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| All he heard was West got the bricks, you gotta sneak up on him
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| Went and got the blow from Pete, you know, Pete from Utica
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| Did a stretch and came home and started shootin' up (Ah)
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| But anyway they did five together up in Attica
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| How I’m gettin' rich and they broke? |
| It ain’t addin' up
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| Niggas started plottin' on me, they followed me from Jummah
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| I peeped the Nautica van, and, yo, I gotta lose 'em (Skrrt)
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| Floatin' down Filmore, slid up in CP
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| One of us gotta go, it ain’t gon' be me
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| Still got the ace still, hopped out
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| Shot Pete on June, his brains landed on Wakefield (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom,
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| boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)
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| Two weeks later, we was baggin'
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| The big nigga showed up, I hid behind the fridge and started clappin' (Brr)
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| Hit the nigga twice in his shoulder, he bust back but missin'
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| Then I got good shots, seven bullets in the same shot (Brr, brr, brr)
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| Now his dust missin', get the mop (Ah)
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| Get the bleach
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| Came a long way from 'caine, we was dealin'
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| Got my name out the kitchen, yeah (We got our name out that kitchen, nigga)
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| Came a long way from 'caine, we was dealin'
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| Got our name out the kitchen, look (All facts)
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| Few thousand for the god crystals (Hah)
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| I can make a call and get the raw shipment (Send that in)
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| One shot, one kill when my dog clipped him
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| Scored on them niggas with one bullet, that’s Rod Strickland (Hahaha)
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| Four fifth-ed him, left him in the front seat of his car, twitchin'
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| I don’t know what kind of raw you been sniffin' (Fuck you on, nigga?)
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| Think you fuckin' with me, my bars different
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| Rock the Dior with the KAWS stitchin', boy, listen (Talk to 'em)
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| You see a spaceship when my garage doors liftin' (Cap)
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| My broad a vixen, smokin' Billy’s, cigar twistin' (Smokin')
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| I got my shooter with me and my dog itchin'
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| He wanna empty out a clip at where your mom’s livin' (Stand it out, nigga)
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| Nigga, you ain’t gettin' shot in your legs
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| It’s a wig shot, double back, shot him again (Boom, boom, boom)
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| All my lil' shooters keep a thirty popper on them (Facts)
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| And nine times out of ten, it’s a body on them (Hah)
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| I know it’s some fuck niggas that I probably offend
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| But try to ride on me, your chances is probably thin
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| Bro, I gotta go in, one of my niggas got indicted
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| And the fiend overdosed, they put the body on him, yeah (That's fucked up)
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| Came a long way from 'caine, we was dealin'
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| Got my name out the kitchen, yeah
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| Uh, came a long way from 'caine, we was dealin'
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| Got our name out the kitchen, yeah
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| A long way from 'caine, we was dealin'
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| Got our name out the— Uh |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Freddie HotSpot, artist - Griselda. Album song WWCD, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп