Lyrics Mechanical Animals - Saigon, Memphis Bleek, Lil Bibby

Mechanical Animals

Just wakin up in the morning, gotta thank God
Last night my uncle pulled off a bank job
Them rich crackers they robbed in Cape Cod
can’t even make out a race of a face so they straight y’all
My momma dead, I trained my daddy to get her back
I know a lot of y’all thinkin, «What kind of shit is that?»
That’s fact, but if you wanna jump on a fast track
He can kiss my whole black ass crack
That ain’t sound right, this shit is true as ever
It’s simply what you get when you put two and two together
The red Panorama, fuck it, the blue Carrera
The Porsche Cayenne, the sedan, the coupe, whatever
Every day above ground is a good day
I’ve been around ten years and I should stay
The realest rapper in the world what I would say
My actions so loud you wouldn’t hear me anyway
Yo (Bleek)
Light the weed up, pour the D’USSE
I never gave a fuck about what you say
Just know your main bitch is a side bitch
I hit her with the Pro Tools, left her to you, logic
Greasy, back on that shit again
My bullets kill, murder, call it a synonym
I’m 'bout to sin again, niggaz fuckin with him again
I kill bosses, merely cripple the middlemen
And any day I break bread is a great day
Play with the money, I’m Bobby Johnson, you Ray Ray
As my nigga Sai' said, «Bleek don’t play»
They know a nigga mean business holdin down that K
Yeah the S.K., A.K., B-K, 100 K
Ridin in the V with the G-L-O-C-K
Yeah, M-Greasy the meanest
I’m so hot niggaz can’t extinguish
Uhh (Bibby)
The block is hot, the cops they watch us
We, load the Glock up, shoot yo' block up
We don’t ever fight so don’t try and box us
Swear they gon' need more police to stop us
Hustle for the dollars, weed I got a lot of
Diamonds on my robins, they sag on her Pradas
Better fix yo' cap jack, 'fore you get yo' scalp cracked
Why you on my block thuggin knowin you ain’t 'bout that?
Fuckin up these beats got the streets on fire
And my youngest play with heat, the police on fire
If you want beef 2−2-3's gon' ride
And if you got them hundreds you can meet 4−5
But if you ain’t got shit, that’ll get you shot quick
Niggaz in the streets know I’m all about a profit
The block is hot, the ops get shot
And I know they want revenge so my Glock is cocked
(G!) From the land where they reach here, Omaha Beach here
Not the place you sunbathe in your beach chair
No white sands, nobody tannin with the bleach hair
Sanitation’ll bleach your blood out the streets here
Far from mellow, hard fellow, Frank Costello
Orchestrate his harps and cellos
And swear they sell, blow the door on theyself
Called survival of the fittest, he did it, go into self-mode
Camoflauge in your pocket, garage stealth mode
Run with the rumors;
I run with these consumers
I put cats on your head like skully hat for Puma
Costume at the crib like I’m fixin cable
Hit your navel and put your lunch back on the kitchen table
Head with one big hole, like a twisted bagel
Get tagged up in the bag with the zipper label
Big calibre shit so everything you get is fatal