| Yeah
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| L-O-X
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| I got 'em
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| Machine, baby
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| Look
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| Word to the coke that in my shooter nose (Sniff)
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| Beluga 2.0s in the coupe I drove
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| On the stoop in the cold movin' stupid O’s
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| Whip the fish before it even dried, deuce was sold
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| Take a half, produce a whole when I use the stove
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| Went from trappin' in Pelle jackets to rockin' Gucci clothes
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| That’s why when you see me I’m with a group of hoes
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| Bad bitches that look like Karrueche, I’m used to those
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| Bal Harbor shoppin', my pockets do be swole
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| Cuban’s gold
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| Put my knife in your body, remove your soul
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| Use your homie shirt to wipe my knife off
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| His blood splattered on my Kev Montclair, I stabbed him twice more
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| The fuck I’m takin' your advice for?
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| When they cut mama lights off, I started sellin' white soft
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| It’s ironic the nigga they tried to write off was takin' the league by storm,
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| I’m kinda like Mars
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| Wake up in the mornin' to a blunted sour
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| Then I’m up in lust, I’m makin' money shower
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| You got money and respect, then you got fuckin' power
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| I’m rich but I clap a nigga over a hundred dollars
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| Where I’m from, you keep the hammer tucked
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| Niggas is foul, fuck around and get your nana bucked
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| Grimy niggas’ll stick Santa though
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| Kill Rudolph, then eat 'em, you couldn’t manage us
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| Why you think niggas is comatose?
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| Homie gave the other homie mama bag, now he got mad
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| Gotta kill 'em with the mag 'cause she overdosed
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| If I gotta box, it’s the 52 or the rope-a-dope
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| Stuntin' in the drop
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| Plottin' on the lot I could build on
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| Cross me I’ma rock a nigga knot
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| I ain’t thinkin' like your average nigga
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| I got carats off of carrots sellin' juice
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| Peaceful yet a savage nigga
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| You could lie about Cartel ties
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| Well I’m the type of guy to leave the Cartel tired
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| Get the match and the gas, watch the Cartel dive
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| I’ll catch 'em slippin' in the gym and let a barbell fly
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| Break his face with a plate like the ghost of Charlie Murphy
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| But I’m the real ghost, you ain’t no Charlie Murphy
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| Not in the comedic way
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| I’m the one who make Paul and Peter pay
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| 9 millimeter spray
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| What you know about the trap bein' slow 'cause the grams bad?
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| But the plug want his dough so you pay for your man half (I'll take care of
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| that)
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| .44 Bulldog makin' your pants sag
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| I swim the swamp with a gator, I made it a handbag
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| They tell me I’m how hope look
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| Them pots had to slow cook
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| Stack of paper on my kitchen table look like notebooks
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| Two shooters with you? |
| We know them niggas, they both puss
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| Roll through and I let this toast cook like Rosewood
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| Black Soprano family, I probably should make the movie
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| Pray over a brick while I’m slidin' a razor through 'em
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| Back to back trips now I got my bitch draped in Lou
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| I’m known for rock and a guitar like David Bowie
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| Yeah, I went against the FBI and crooked judges
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| When rappers start losin' limbs you know the Butcher comin'
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| Y’all still gassed off my rookie numbers
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| This the kid that’s from a block that did Westside Gunn hoodie numbers
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| Uh, I grew to be a hustler but I ran with thieves (But I ran with thieves)
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| You steal from the gang, I bet your hands’ll bleed
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| I met in a plug in the feds who used to hand me ki’s
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| We was like Donovan McNabb and Andy Reid
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| Take me to your trap, I outta draft the plate
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| I fuck around and put my signature on a bag of H
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| Y’all niggas usin' 12 12's and call it stackin' cake
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| When my niggas bag up, we usin' garbage bags and tape
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| Let’s go, agh |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Blam, Blam, Blam , by - Styles P. Song from the album PRESENCE, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп