Lyrics Hayworth - Mickey Factz, Cyhi The Prynce, eLZhi

Hayworth

Yeah, they see me in them 25th letters, all they do is why
Can’t he get better
Of course over time, but that’s an extra quarter
$ 1.25 if you caught it you a scorer
Tom Brady aura, Patriot created
Now I want my quarter back, hurry with the payment
Your wifey on my balls till they both got deflated
The writings on the wall Stevie saw it when he sang it
Ribbon in the sky, tie it to a cloud
This gifted nigga fly like a pigeon when it glides
Searching for the present like your listen for the time
And it’s all wrapped when I’m fitting it inside
Morikami paintings you can see them in the entrance
I be getting faded fireball is my apprentice
Metaphors I live by my nigga Lupe get the credit
On top of that they can’t equal facts
Tower over niggas, tell me who want a piece of that?
Leaning back, Morgan Freeman rap, yeah you see the bat
Without that Michael Keaton cat, Y-3, bring it back
This is how it go
Shit is different on me
Now you know
Spend a little time
Doing me on the low
Now they got me feeling like the G.O.A.T
Like whoa, I’m the best
I tell my mirror everyday
Little homie I’m the best
Now these haters feel some kind of way
Cause I got them things on
El, let me begin like this
I gets deep (?)
(?) motor bike cyclists
That was written in blood, type-0
No misspelling
I got the mannerisms of a man of wisdom
Rolling up a gram of ism
Busting off the brain like an aneurysm
Bet I officially win
We’ll put up paper
But y’all scared to pinpoint when to pencil me in
Your schedule is clear that my legible handwriting
Is groundbreaking like Super Saiyans
Fighting super friends and titans
Why would you sleep on my position in rap
Cause if those listeners (?) kept staring how I’m missing a step
Supplying lines like I’m kilo flipping
Don’t let me get in your head, stick out my foot
And have your ego tripping
Those (?) pursuit of
Leaves mummified
And should get they piece from a pie
That’s just food for thought
Y-3, I’m talking Jeremy Scott
Yohji Yamamoto cause Yeezy’s barely in stock
My pops ain’t gone bury me, boy
I’ma bury my pops
Before I bury the hatchet, I rather bury the Glock
She said I never smoke
Well, I got to cherry the pop
I got that mary jane, I smoke the hairiest pot
What if Mary Magdalene had a bloody mary with a virgin
On December 25th
While bumping Mary J. Blige
And Miss Mary Mack got on this little lamb
Would you still say Merry Christmas
If Joseph married the thot?
Lord have mercy
You ain’t heard no bars as sweet as this, Lord have Hershey’s
My birthday is the only other day supposed to have Turkish
Kirkwood is the new Mexico
And I ain’t talking Albuquerque
Huh, boy, you gone have to murk 'em
I done swam through deeper waters
This shit ain’t half as murky
My clip pack a thirty
Can’t let you bastards hurt me
You gone need the same stitches
They put the name on the back of jerseys with
God please forgive 'em
For shooting at the clergy
And my bitch kill every event
Jackie Joyner-Kersee, motherfucker