| Wassup son
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| Wassup, what’s really good
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| Whats really good right now
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| Hahahahaa
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| I’m billin' at the club with a bottle and a bag
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| Fresh to death head to toe with that average Joe swag
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| Lookin' Walmart sheik with the exception of the sneakers
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| Got my own shit bumpin' through them Clarion speakers
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| Got burn one at the wheel with the pistol on tug
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| Got Demun an Crisis with me y’all don’t wanna press your luck
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| I got the windows down, hoody weather with a breeze
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| That’s four mother fuckers, eight pockets full of cheese
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| I got a whole bottle of Stolichnaya
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| A fresh bag of fire from my supplier
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| And I think I just saw cloud 9
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| Hundred and ninety-nine fly by
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| La la la la la la
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| This shit cut to the bone
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| Criminals sing this song (Hey!)
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| What’s real can you not feel
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| The way we murder and kill
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| Open minds up and let guts spill
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| Never done on this level until
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| Now you might win a battle or a freestyle
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| But that’s t-ball and I’m on a million miles
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| You got a sling shot I got armor and a shield
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| And a lot of hundred-dollar bills
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| And a hot model cooking all of my meals
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| New York lawyer closin' my deals
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| Nothing on the table, every cent banked
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| Dipped head to toe and my shit don’t stank
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| Great white shark in a fish tank
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| Gennie in your wish list, what your bitch thank?
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| What your bitch thank?
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| I got a whole bottle of Stolichnaya
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| A fresh bag of fire from my supplier
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| And I think I just saw cloud 9
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| Hundred and ninety-nine fly by
|
| I got a whole bottle of Stolichnaya
|
| A fresh bag of fire from my supplier
|
| And I think I just saw cloud 9
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| Hundred and ninety-nine fly by
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| La la la la la la
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| La la la la la la la la
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| Jimmy Ty, Daniel Ellsworth, Alexander Perkins
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| Got 'em all slurpin' the gherkin
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| Murkin' and twerkin' I’m lookin', it’s workin'
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| I’m arrogant, American, the liquor drinking derelict
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| They wonder where I get the nerve, nowhere in particular
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| Bitches say I’m immature then they want a signature
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| Boyfriend trippin', hematomas, ligatures
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| Your girl still got a pretty face but look at yours
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| I could take your hooker sure
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| I could also make a coffee table book of turds
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| I’m a 6-pack, and get back 12 to raise hell and a case
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| If you don’t get the fuck out my face…
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| I got a whole bottle of Stolichnaya
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| A fresh bag of fire from my supplier
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| And I think I just saw cloud 9
|
| Hundred and ninety-nine fly by
|
| I got a whole bottle of Stolichnaya
|
| A fresh bag of fire from my supplier
|
| And I think I just saw cloud 9
|
| Hundred and ninety-nine fly by
|
| La la la la la la
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| La la la la la la la la
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| We been poppin' collars
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| Like a bullet through the knot in a necktie
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| Headline act with a 10 o’clock set time
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| 4 o’clock load in label on the phone
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| «Yo we need a record from you Danny»
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| Gotta meet the deadline
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| Another night writing for the sunlight bedtime
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| Purple circles, around my red eyes
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| Elevate the mind state
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| Try to relax with a bottle and a sack
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| And they call this big time
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| Chiefin' like a chief in a wigwam
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| Inhale deep this shit will make ya wig warm
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| Crysis Jones on the left
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| Ty, «what the hook gonna be?»
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| I was thinking something like the weed hook
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| Don’t mean, yeahhhh…
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| Maybe not
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| Take a shot of vodka
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| Pack another bowl up
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| Talk a little caca
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| (Talk a little caca)
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| Smoke until we cockeyed
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| (Smoke until we cockeyed)
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| Alright…
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| I’m billin' at the club with a bottle and a bag
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| Fresh to death head to toe with that average Joe swag
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| Lookin' Walmart sheik with the exception of the sneakers
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| Got my own shit bumpin' through them Clarion speakers
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| (Speakers, speakers, speakers, speakers…)
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| (Speakers, speakers, speakers, speakers…)
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| (Speakers, speakers, speakers, speakers…) |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Stoli, artist - Rehab. Album song Million Dollar Mug Shot, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп