Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Trippie Redd's Freestyle , by - IDK. Release date: 12.07.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Trippie Redd's Freestyle |
| This next verse, these bars |
| Yeah, uh |
| I just realized that I’m a rich nigga |
| My momma and poppa never made six figures |
| By 2019, I’ll be at seven figures |
| This my moment of clarity, let me tell it jigga |
| I gave up liquor, I gave up smoking |
| Knowing that the green from being sober is way more potent |
| Now people poking noses in my business |
| Pinocchio and they lying, trying hard to figure out |
| Which ho I’m strokin' to use their lotion |
| I don’t fuck bitches, I got a wife now |
| Young nigga, grown rich nigga lifestyle |
| I could line every rapper up right now |
| And fade 'em with the bars to make every one of 'em lie down |
| Sleep, Poké Flute couldn’t wake 'em up |
| Poke a stick at they body |
| Now po-po about to bring the cuts |
| Oh no, I’m 'bout to do a bid |
| Oh shit, they 'bout to free the kid |
| Killin' bad rappers is legal across the nation, bitch |
| Die, die, die, die, die |
| And I say it with passion |
| Half these people talkin' shit don’t say shit |
| When you leave the Internet |
| And you just happen to see 'em in passin' |
| It’s just harder to see them outside of the actin' |
| It’s more harder to see them outside of the laughin' |
| When they only with they friends and sayin' that your album trash |
| When right before they looked you in your face |
| And told you you were snappin' |
| They the ones that stab your back in when they catch you lackin' |
| They the ones that shouldn’t have been in the womb instead of nappin' |
| Capitalizin' off of these niggas lackin', what the fuck happened? |
| Niggas turned to kingpins, Twitter fingers they get to tappin' |
| Must’ve pushed the key under the tab, all your words is cappin' |
| Bitch, I am the captain |
| Bitch, I am the chief |
| Bitch, I am the priest when I wake |
| Bitch, you are deceased |
| Bitch, you are control, alt, delete |
| Bitch, be gone for me |
| Bitch, you need to think before you speak |
| Bitch, you came to someone’s |
| Bitch, you panic knowing I don’t need no XL stamp to excel |
| I just got 20 bands and transportation in a XL |
| To make them throw their hands up and scream my lyrics |
| Meanwhile, people talkin' |
| Got me askin' «Where you at?"without a Nextel |
| No, for real, where you at? |
| The internet still? |
| No, for real, where you at? |
| Your mama crib still? |
| No for real, where you at? |
| My comment section usin' cracked iPhone 5Ss to hate my blessin’s |
| Wildin', click your page |
| All I see is, «This profile page is private» |
| With a profile picture of Michael Jordan’s face cryin' |
| Probably 'cause I’m ballin' like I’m Lebron and you retired |
| While a nigga still chasin' them rings like Blac Chyna |
| No major labels, keepin' up with niggas on major labels |
| When I sign, the label’s keepin' up with me, you won’t be able |
| Eatin' at my table, you ain’t cool enough and that’s the lingo |
| Now I put the classmates that used to laugh up on my payroll |
| Ho, I think I’m better than Cole, better than Dot |
| Fuck a tweet, bitch I’m just as good as Biggie and Pac |
| R.I.P., this my Kodak, Lil Xan, and Yachty talk |
| Akademiks cover him, Adam 22 with the shots |
| Y’all ain’t got No Jumpers |
| Double entendre, double entendre |
| You ain’t catch it? |
| Well, that’s your problem |
| This ain’t no dissin', this ain’t no hate |
| But keep it real, this is the Freshmen I didn’t make? |
| In other words, all of you rappers is just steak |
| When you fallin' off the bone of them charts, I’m eatin' your plate |
| You can’t put me in a class when I’m busy teachin' 'em lessons |
| So next year, don’t even hit me to be a Freshmen |
| I’m gon' fuck it up |
| Too many bodies, too many stretchers |
| Better buckle up |
| Too much gas and I’m in a Tesla |
| Test the 'Rosa in my future, they sleepin' |
| I got the rooster, they seated |
| I got the booster, I’m seein' over these losers |
| Please book me, Lollapalooza |
| I’m blowin', it’s like a tuba |
| I’d blow his head with a Ruger if he hot and can’t cool up |
| I’m blowin' like I’m a cougar’s jaws, who’s involved? |
| Whose acoustics make it sound like he’s infused with Nas |
| Mixed with Gucci, cross him without a cross light |
| And you gon' see the cross roads twice |
| Rest in Peace Phife |
| You gon' see life, pass before you better be nice |
| 'Cause I will body everybody |
| If I see sight of a nigga that don’t even blink right |
| Shoutout YBN Cordae, IDK is my name |
| Hi, this Trippie verse, bye |