Lyrics Window Frame Cypher - Pete & Bas, Smith, McMillan

Window Frame Cypher

And a mate went down for a long one, a young man never said names
I’ve got big tools and I’ve got big cars and I’ve got big chains
Gold, one on each finger, hands on the wheel of the Range
You don’t want to come round here, get put through the window frame
Get put through the window then I come kick down doors
I like my watch but hold on mate, I still want yours
You see these hands, you see this face, you know my name
You don’t want to come round here, get put through the window frame
I don’t want to hear another word from your mouth son, I came to collect this
paper
Made so many bets on my iPhone, I used up all of my 4G data
Out with the wife in Spoons and I just put a fork in a mouthy waiter
Knock a man out in an Uber, I’m the new Charlie Slater
You don’t want to come around here, got samurai swords and a blacked out Beamer
I’ve got your wife in the kitchen bent down screaming «PKJ»
You don’t want to war with this one, Patrick might just gouge your eyes
And like I said before, I’m with your wife in the kitchen pounding thighs
I go fast and they go slow
And another bad B gets poked
You know that she wants this pole
But I’m on road wait till I get home
She brock up the packs, I wrapped it
Fling that arse back, I slapped it
You know that Smith’s on road
And if I’ve got beef then Ball-Head backed it
Money, cash, baby do the math
Heavy, stacks, do-do do-do pow
I’m in the back of the Beam
Cutting a pack with the team
Dishing it out for the fiends
I keep a mash in the jeans
And a man-a-man chef like Gordon
Pull out the kweff and I boot his door in
And I’m up till 5 in’t morning
Sunrise cats on the trap line calling
Pull out the Pyrex glass, pull out the egg beater and dash
I like to whip white with mash
Any black girl or white I smash
I came to beef one fella
He went home in a black bin bag
Thought he could dodge these hands
Head got spun like a ceiling fan
I am the man, one phone call and the boys come down
Grab your neck with these hands
Grip real tight, and a man laid down
And a mate went down for a long one, a young man never said names
I’ve got big tools and I’ve got big cars and I’ve got big chains
Gold, one on each finger, hands on the wheel of the Range
You don’t want to come round here, get put through the window frame
Get put through the window then I come kick down doors
I like my watch but hold on mate, I still want yours
You see these hands, you see this face, you know my name
You don’t want to come round here, get put through the window frame