| New York’s pretty pity in the summer
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| Rotten Apple, baby
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| And it ain’t no pity in the rain
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| (Heatmakerz, crack music)
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| On my sundresses and cocaine
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| Flyin' into one coast and the other
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| Might score out here
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| Now that I really wish I could stay
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| Ya heard me?
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| Uh, uh
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| With all my efforts is so effortless (Like)
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| I treat these raps like cracks when I was cheffin' bricks
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| Blindfold me in the kitchen or anywhere next to it (I got it)
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| Did fuck your bitch, you could put an X next to it
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| A one-thirty is like a Glock with an extra clip
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| I call my bitch to make sure she got an extra bitch
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| I buy a burner phone just so I could text her (He gone)
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| Set a nigga up, they always fall for a sexy bitch (Silly)
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| 'Specially in the summer with a sundress
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| A forty-five'll make a grown man undress (Get naked)
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| Pussy nigga lucky the gun jammed like SummerFest (Boom)
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| Think about yes but I’ma ten when the sun set
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| Uh, shit’ll make your soul move
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| Feed a nigga bullets like he was eatin' soul food
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| Turn a hot boy into a cold dude
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| Still dancin' on Coke, shit, that’s my old moves
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| Uh, what’s up, what’s up?
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| Real niggas in the buildin', what’s up, what’s up?
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| We in the city poppin' wheelies with one wheel up
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| Big chains, new watches on drug dealers, huh
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| New York’s pretty pity in the summer
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| And it ain’t no pity in the rain
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| Flyin' into one coast and the other
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| Now that I really wish I could stay
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| I ain’t get a deal, you still wanna cool me off
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| Me and Jim, we woulda made a livin' smackin' coofies off
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| The coupe, it cost, the roof is off
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| See inside it, the leather baby, bootie-soft
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| Why you mad? |
| You knew we flossed
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| Drip hard, stupid sauce
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| Neiman Marcus, Louis Force
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| Fuck you, truly yours
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| I knew D-Firm, the real on it
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| Henny up for Kenny Hutch
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| Yeah, that’s on my moms, bitch
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| Don’t make the don of dons turn into Don Trip
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| King and queen, you pawn, slick, stay calm, bitch
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| Call some models up, bring 'em through, let the bottles pour
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| Me and Big Meech really had bottle wars
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| Gettin' money, it don’t matter what the bottom score is
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| Gettin' money, you can say shit like «Swallow, whore»
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| Butter-soft duffel bag, fill up mine, get a half
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| Flip a pack, took some L’s, every time I get it back
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| Uh, what’s up, what’s up?
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| Real niggas in the buildin', what’s up, what’s up?
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| We in the city poppin' wheelies with one wheel up
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| Big chains, new watches on drug dealers, huh
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| Camera saw what your crew made
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| Now they snitchin', they Anbesol, they too fake
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| I’ll grant 'em all for thirty grams of raw
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| Had a dream I met Pablo, told 'em, «I've been a fan of yours»
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| Ice in my crucifix, fat man fly
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| 'Cause of the white, my cross fire like the Klan outside
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| Got half the block combin' for a half a block
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| I’m in an apricot foreign with Travis Scott Jordans
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| This junkie know I’m affiliated
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| Had his Oxy 80 on the table that’s missin', I feel he ate it
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| They see me spittin' and they feel he made it
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| So the eagle I will fill in Philly, you feel me? |
| I’m Philly hated
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| The Cream still a favorite
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| My eyes water up when I see my fiends rehabilitated
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| If you owe, then you still owe, nigga, the bill updated
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| That’s how I go, nothin' to play with
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| New York, nigga
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| Uh, what’s up, what’s up?
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| Real niggas in the buildin', what’s up, what’s up?
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| We in the city poppin' wheelies with one wheel up
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| Big chains, new watches on drug dealers, huh
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| New York’s pretty pity in the summer
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| And it ain’t no pity in the rain
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| Flyin' into one coast and the other
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| Now that I really wish I could stay |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Pity in the Summer, artist - Jim Jones. Album song El Capo, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп