Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Gassed , by - Montana of 300. Release date: 09.02.2017
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Gassed |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |
| Money on my mind, picture dollar signs |
| If they chuck em out its fine must been out of line |
| Must be out your fuckin' mind and collide with mine |
| You’ll be with the fucking dead like you sodomize |
| If not now paying time like you got a fine |
| Find exactly where you dyin, soon as you recline |
| That look I see in your eye don’t mean no surprise |
| And right before you see the dark you gone' know the light |
| My fuego rock his cradle |
| Ima light his top up just like candles on a table |
| Should’ve knew better than stepping out here in that water Fredo |
| Bet this pump gone em leave looking like he been hit by tomatoes |
| Fucking clown, nothing funny now |
| Touchdown on the prowl, when I come in town |
| Hunt em down, Gun em down with 100 rounds |
| Blaw its not a sound when I come around |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |
| Wings up! |
| MOB! |
| I was born a sinner Imma die a winner |
| Just know I’m ridin with my niggas till we cross the finish |
| Bitch I’m Popeye on that spinach when it come to bidness' |
| Slide that clip in Nina let her blow your ass some kisses |
| Bow! |
| Bow! |
| That’s my bitch nigga |
| And she ain’t never hesitate to pop that pussy on bitch nigga |
| My side ho is thick, I keep 50 in the clip |
| Pull up on a nigga with the mask on like Link |
| 8 ball corner pocket when I drop you that’s it |
| Like he rocking balmain how a nigga getting zipped |
| I ain’t talking ounces, shotty bounce em then he getting flipped |
| Then its game over like its Lil Flip |
| I’m Satchmo when I let that gat blow |
| I’m like Kobe ill give you 60 for that Jazz load |
| That’s 2 30s sticking out like a bitch with ass though |
| Fuck that bitch and kick her out |
| Get back to that cash flow |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |
| We gone' get the cream like a fucking rash |
| Hulk Hogan with the stash, hold the gun and cash |
| Take away his future leave him in the past |
| Pull my mac on you dummies you don’t want to crash |
| We gone run it up yea, Forest Gump |
| Pockets got the mumps fatter than the clumps |
| All that talking tough that’ll get you slumped |
| Hop out, up the pump squeeze it fill em up |
| Then ill pull off leaving shells middle finger 12 |
| Oppose me, mission fail, boy you sick as hell |
| Niggas actors like Denzel till I give em hell |
| Change in em like a well now that nigga pale |
| Steering with my left while I shoot at you with my right hand |
| Kill everybody cold ill turn your block into Iceland |
| Equipment in my trunk I got poles as long as a mic stand |
| Ready to back me up that’s at every show like my hype man |
| Squad! |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |
| Pull up on them gassed, all I know is blast |
| Pop 'em like a tag put em in a bag |
| Let them trumpets blow I ain’t talking jazz |
| Then get back to the cash all I know is racks |