Lyrics Propane - Lloyd Banks

Propane

Yeah
Banks
COTI…
Hundred dollar bills for sit-up drills, my benji' reps
Ignorant, and I don’t give two fucks with Fendi F’s
Learning by habit, consistency made the memory stretch
Turn you to an addict, your lady will kiss the Bentley chest
Dig your way out the ground or spend a century stressed
I get you stomped off some 'ority, shouldn’t tempt the vets
Uh, playa haters make my temper flex
20 years of pushing this pen, an instrumental threat
Death to haters, can’t even be here in spirit
Kill a nigga, set up his GoFundMe and steal it
Designer chronic, pockets reeking out the air vent
I can show you where to buy this shit, can’t teach you how to wear it
It’s a waste going back and forth, success will really kill 'em
Balling like Russell Westbrook, Bill or Wilson
Give me rappers, I’ma kill some, mumblers on my jacket
Drop the remains in traffic, club him like I’m barbaric
Star addicts
Nothing is the same
These niggas don’t deserve to rock, run 'em out the game
They love it when we serve the block, this is cocaine
The temperature is falling and this shit ain’t gon' change
Nigga drive safely, swerving out of lane
The pain is strong enough to make a nigga go insane
We just want the money, y’all can have the fame
Promise I’ll remain, put it my chain, propane
Uh, dumb is justification, is it working, does it keep it fast?
Everybody just can’t be hating, my nigga you just trash
Ass kissers dropping to knees, you need the Ewing pads
I ain’t seen you niggas since teens, still hope you doing bad
Country of the Serpant, y’all all in bed with the snake
Black fitted reads: «When was America great?»
In the bootleg era, left competition dead on a tape
Kryptonite to super save a hoe, infrared on your cape
Shit, I’m lying?
Get me amputated, cradled to the casket, homie
Nothing 'bout me animated, I only use the cash emoji
Everybody make mistakes, let nothing out past control me
Married to the motherfucking game, frozen matrimony
Hate when they compare me to niggas, never been even, son
Hammer to a hand grenade, cannon to a BB-Gun
Pussy talking slick about me, who you think was feeding them?
I pull up on you all four quarters, let the meter run
Nothing is the same
These niggas don’t deserve to rock, run 'em out the game
They love it when we serve the block, this is cocaine
The temperature is falling and this shit ain’t gon' change
Nigga drive safely, swerving out of lane
The pain is strong enough to make a nigga go insane
We just want the money, y’all can have the fame
Promise I’ll remain, put it my chain, propane