| Yeah, it’s your boy
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| Yamborghini on the motherfucking check in
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| AKA Wavybone
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| AKA the Puerto Rican R Kelly
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| AKA Young Chocolate Factory
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| Parentheses, no homo, you feel me?
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| In this life, you got two kinds of people
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| Those who ride the wave, and those who provide the wave
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| Me, Fatts, and Da$h, we out here providing the wave
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| In Versace swim trunks, surfing the seven seas
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| Y’all on the beach shore with your khakis rolled up
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| With your chancletas in your hand, just observing the wave
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| You feel me?
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| This that Tony T getting thrown off the boat
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| Rosenburg wouldn’t have died if he ain’t blow all that coke
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| Carlito watching bitches through the peep hole
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| Get a message to a seagull, fly away birdy, I’m 7:30
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| Laying on the beach, bitch on my torso, sand in my feet
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| Owl feather towel, just to try the physique
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| Sit at the top in the Zenith, see’d Athena, roll the weed for me
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| Hades hating, but it really ain’t a thing to me
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| Young immortal, nigga, skin made of wax and gold
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| Popeye with the red eyes while I’m puffing on the spinach, ho
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| Breaking any status quo, like Marshall Brady fragile nose
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| Went from playing snatch and go to selling niggas tracks for dough
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| It’s the rap camp renegade, syrup in my lemonade
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| Newports every time I scrape my dinner plate
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| Malt liquor and Backwood smoke fill my lungs and my fucking veins
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| Drunk texting a bitch who half naked in someone’s centre page
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| To keep it, I treats the shit just like the movie Heat
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| Show down in the fucking street, fire at the coppers
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| Blocka, blocka, call the fucking doctor
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| Think it’s a Opera the way that fat bitch singing
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| When the mobsters in the building, them alarms start ringing
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| Yeah, So, nigga
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| Ya heard? |
| it’s your boy, Yam, feel me?
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| I’m feeling like, this bitch
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| We got more bitches than them twins from Jagged Edge
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| Ya heard? |
| I’m in the wave fortress right now
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| With a cashmere sun visor, eating fried zebra back
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| What you know 'bout that?
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| Ounces in the dresser, trapping under pressure
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| Never been a one for Lexus, 40 leave him on a stretcher
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| Pray to God daily, know he got me through whatever
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| So I kept my ties and went and bought me a Beretta
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| Heater for the cold weather, and snow for the sleigh
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| And want more, then I got a gun store under my bed
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| And if he play with my bread, JFK a nigga head
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| Then it’s back to moving Brittany, staying low from K feds
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| My momma say I’m losing my mind because I creep with my nine
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| And now I’m rapping, shit, I feel like Shyne
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| lawyers for my niggas, try and buy him some time
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| Flip a sack to re up, now I’m back on my grind
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| Young niggas do it all for the revenue
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| Run up in the house with two niggas that ain’t scared to shoot
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| Let them cannons loose and send 'em to the sky
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| Then pray for better days ‘cause this the life we live until we die |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song The Wave Matthews Band , by - Joey Fatts. Song from the album Chipper Jones Vol. 2, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп