Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Drill Time, artist - Slim Jesus. Date of issue: 08.01.2017
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Drill Time |
| I fuck with savages, you a fuckboy, you can’t hang |
| You can find me posted up on Frank block with my fuckin' gang |
| You ain’t really 'bout shit, stay out my… |
| Cocky |
| (Let's get it) |
| (Let's get it) |
| Gang and his bitch |
| Slim Jesus in a cut |
| (Let's get it) |
| (Boom, boom, boom, boom) |
| I fuck with savages, you a fuckboy, you can’t hang (Nah) |
| You can find me posted up on Frank block with my fuckin' gang (Gang) |
| You ain’t really 'bout shit, stay out my spot, don’t speak my name |
| Or I pull up on your block at night, wearing all black and let that 40 bang |
| I fucked your girl and I ain’t even try to, that little hoe, she a fuckin' thot |
| (Thot) |
| Got her off the Molly, now she rollin', all she good for is giving top (Rollin') |
| I got loud pack, I got school buses, hurry up fam, come and shop (Trap) |
| I got a big 40 with a thirty-clip, and I call that bitch my fuckin' mop |
| I paid 350 for a Fendi belt, and that double F hold up my strap (Designer) |
| A lot of y’all just Twitter flex but this shit ain’t just a fuckin' rap (Nah) |
| I hear one diss and I’m running up in your fuckin' trap (Boom, boom, boom, boom) |
| You thought shit was sweet 'til I ran up with no fuckin' mask (Boom, boom, boom, |
| boom) |
| Always chasing a check, bitch I’m really 'bout mine |
| You a broke boy but you rock designer, that shit don’t sound right (Fu-fu) |
| Thought you could sneak diss and you won’t get found, right? |
| 'Til you get caught in traffic, at the wrong place, at the wrong time (Let's |
| get it) |
| Got a couple shooters and they ride with me |
| And they down to shoot when it’s drill time |
| Pull up and we get to drumming |
| Let thirty shots out that Glock nine |
| Got a couple shooters and they ride with me |
| And they down to shoot when it’s drill time |
| Pull up and we get to drumming |
| Let thirty shots out that Glock nine |
| Now it’s back to the trap with a twenty sack |
| Rolling up a swisher of that straight gas (Cocky) |
| Got a fifty-clip sticking out the MAC |
| So that’s fifty shots for your goofy ass (Boom, boom, boom, boom) |
| Copped a Ferragamo when I was up at Saks |
| But my True Religions still off my ass |
| I got heavy pockets, I got big ass bands |
| Run up on me tryna rob, and that thirty blap |
| Keep a bankroll on me at all times, rolled up with a rubber band (Racks) |
| Off the lean, that Promethazine got me walking around like a kick stand |
| (Leanin') |
| Keep a burner tucked on my right side, my .380 or my FN |
| And if I catch you lacking, better pray to God that my shit jam |
| B-but if it don’t, I’ma take you out like a fuckin' date |
| Put a hole in your fuckin' back if I catch you talkin' to the fuckin' Jakes |
| (Boom, boom, boom, boom) |
| Ain’t afraid to catch a body and skip out from state to state (Skrrt, skrrt) |
| And if there’s a witness, I’ma kill 'em too and I’ma beat the case |
| Let’s get it! |
| (Let's get it) |
| Cocky (Let's get it…) |