| Through the lights, cameras, the action
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| Glammers, glitters, and gold
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| So much money that my paper won’t fold
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| Shooting game at these hoes
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| Like I’m bishop, magic, done one
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| Out in Hong Kong, eating stuffed wontons
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| With this dumb blonde
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| East side, that’s where I come from
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| Doctor Lecter, bitch
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| I move effortless, Actavis in my beverage (bitch)
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| I murder beats like a terrorist, get a therapist
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| This mac’ll make a pussy nigga do a pirouette
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| Standing on top of pyramids, watching these snakes slither quick
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| My bitch could make her pussy toke a couple cigarettes
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| I bet I be more than nigga rich
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| Gun powder in my pits, kibbles and bits
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| The champagne fizzles a bit
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| Mister Benton, I’m invisible bitch
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| Keep an icepick to chisel a prick
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| She discovered my discography, she listens to Rittz
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| I gave her a couple hits and now she’s licking my dick
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| Yeah, smooth as a gator on a block of ice
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| Tough guys get chop chopped with a pocket knife
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| I’m on the grind tryna get these fucking pockets right
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| Helicopters hover the block at night
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| Crack head, stuck to Lucifer’s noose
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| Another warm Saturday, I take the roof off the coupe
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| I’m drinking again, I guess I mixed the juice and the Goose
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| I cum in your bitch’s hair, she say she use it as mousse
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| Watching Judge Mathis, flicking ashes on these nigga’s fabric
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| Riding with a dime piece in a vintage Maverick
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| I just copped a time machine, and a new Bugatti
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| Just cause they dress like faggots, they ain’t Illuminati
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| Bitch, yea
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| Ya’ll pussy ass niggas sleeping on the god, man
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| You know what I’m saying?
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| When a nigga start goddamn shinning, do-don't act like you know me then, nigga
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| You know what I’m saying? |
| Go put your god damn shoes in the freezer, bitch
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| 'Cos you walking on motherfucking thin ice, nigga
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| Jarren Benton, ya’ll niggas ain’t fucking with the kid, bitch
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| (Yea) Let’s go
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| A drug dealer’s dream, cup filled with lean
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| stuffed to the seams
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| Green, power time, all I see is dollar signs
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| You get out of line, take you out your olive nines
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| Fuck, ocean view in the hands
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| Tell the bitch cook something, throw some food in the pan
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| Then I send her home with the scent of my dick
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| I’m a beast, I’m a dog, get the vet when I’m sick
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| Shit, I’m too fat to fit in the Panamera
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| Strappers lit, these rappers bitching, they ran in terror
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| From the attic era, 'matic in the hammer bearer
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| Smash your, rub my baby batter in like Aloe Vera
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| Bet she told you she ain’t like fat guys
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| 'Till I got her that high, plug like a flash drive
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| Crushed in a cab ride, fuck, let the cash fly
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| King shit, getting sucked, eating Pad Thai
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| Murder for the chips again, burn 'em for the dividends
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| Tailor made ostrich, Birkin for my women friends
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| Uh, I got monetary obsessions, got to carry a weapon
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| They plot on my very essence
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| Uh, I’m from the bottom and I’m glad we are
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| You know straight Honda Civics, no caddy cars
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| I turned a stogey to a grand daddy 'gar
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| And now it’s all about the xanny bars and caviar
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| Rappers talk suspicious, like they bought some viscous
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| Boy how you the weight man? |
| You washing dishes
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| How many rappers really get it 'fore they get in
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| My yellow gold Cuban make these rappers tuck they shit in
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| Bitch |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Judge Mathis, artist - Jarren Benton. Album song The Mink Coat Killa (The Lost 4), in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп