Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Sauce Icons (Dripped & Screwed), artist - SAUCE WALKA. Date of issue: 15.08.2021
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Sauce Icons (Dripped & Screwed) |
| Ooh-wee |
| Ooh-wee |
| (Damn, Quad, this shit bangin') |
| Splash |
| Sauce send hits like a boxer arm (Shit) |
| Fast on a bitch like Ramadan |
| Bitch gotta pray to me, Farrakhan |
| R.I.P. |
| Nip, this the marathon |
| I done made five million 'fore thirty-one |
| Boy, you made five trenches and you thirty-one |
| Boy, I know your mama wish she could switch her son |
| If you scared, go to church, make your bitch a nun |
| Y’all really in the way, y’all ain’t gettin' none |
| See these Bathing Ape shoes? |
| They ain’t made to run |
| That’s why all my niggas punch and we stay with guns |
| And my shooter cross-eyed like my granny son |
| So he aim it at whatever when he start to hit |
| If you on th other side, then you gttin' split |
| I could get a nigga touched just to take a pic |
| I could bust a bitch down like you bust a brick |
| Difference is, when we ride, everything legit |
| What you get for a nine, she get for a kiss |
| What you get for a half, she get for a fit |
| If she make thirty-nine, I keep thirty-six |
| I can’t leave too many dimes with a dirty bitch |
| I ain’t tryna see my bitch on some dirty shit |
| But dedicated to the game get dirty, bitch, ooh-wee (Ooh) |
| I got the B, that’s a walking block |
| I rock the Frank Mueller just for the clock |
| I can’t fuck with him, he tell |
| I know that fuck nigga talk a lot, ooh |
| I told you I’m pullin' off the lot, ayy |
| Boy, you a bitch, fix your halter-top, ooh |
| Chopper, it hit him, they chalk him out |
| Shouldn’t’ve had pressure with me, ayy |
| TSF business relentless |
| A crib full of killers, no steppin' on me, ayy |
| Just know if you start, we gon' finish |
| I keep smokin' spinach, I’m blessed as can be, ayy |
| The house, just bet it on me, ooh |
| Seen him out, he dead in the street, ooh |
| My twins, ain’t talkin' Siamese |
| And the kid havin' water like beach |
| Walk in the house, eeny-meeny-miny-moe |
| Bake a lil' bit 'bout the dough, ayy |
| If you don’t got it, gotta go, ooh |
| I prefer the bright or the snow, ayy |
| Diamonds shinin' light, don’t glow |
| And them hoes hittin', I think they doin' the woah, ayy |
| And a nigga clean like soap, jeez |
| Chopper hit a nigga, cut him up like a heater, ooh |
| G before the P like Grand Prix |
| Sancho still breakin' bitches, understand me? |
| I been bickin' back boolin', gettin' cottage cheese |
| But disrespect’ll get you killed, that’s guaranteed |
| In the hills with this white bitch named Beverly |
| Told a bitch to go to work and hold carefully |
| Big sancho, big bird, no Sesame |
| Spillin' sauce, big boss, I got the recipe |
| Pourin' syrup in the A&W bream soda |
| In the trap, was still a baby, can’t lean on it |
| Hundred-thousand-dollar play, I put the team on it |
| Then I bought an F&N with a beam on it |
| Bitch, I’m married to the sauce, I put a ring on it |
| When he took his last breath, you should’ve seen homie |
| At first it was hoo-hoos and hahas |
| But now it’s red roses and goodbyes |
| On sauce, on twin |