Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Nobody Tell a Name, artist - Taylor Bennett. Album song Restoration of an American Idol, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 10.04.2017
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Tay Bennett Entertainment
Song language: English
Nobody Tell a Name |
You don’t need to wonder if I blow |
There’s alot of it |
On my Koji Kondo shit, on my Koji Kondo |
Technicolor platinum silver golds on my front some shit |
On my Koji Kondo shit, on my Koji Kondo |
East Atlanta, South Chicago flows |
Yeah we run this shit |
Don’t you even front bout it, don’t you even front bout it |
Throw the peace sign, this is nothing, I be high |
As two-pilot propeller planes |
Got hella flame for the fuckboys that sell they fame |
The pigs come round', nobody tell a name |
Nobody tell a name, nobody tell a name |
The pigs come round', nobody tell a name |
My bitch bought me a Gucci shirt |
I’m turnt up like Lil Uzi Vert |
Fuck with me you might get murked |
My clique draped in all type of flow |
For my lil' bro moves all types of work |
My gang out here, my gang out there |
I’m with them hoods that you can’t go |
Atlanta like my second home |
My side bitch if we technical |
No nigga this fresh you know |
Dressed like a professional, turquoise on my necklace though |
You be on that western coast |
Always on the dash you know, sorry I ain’t checking though |
I’m just out in Texas though, meet and text and sex these hoes |
I’m not even flexing though |
It’s just my confessional, it’s just my confessional |
How a nigga move so professional |
With an extra hoe? |
I’mma let you know |
Getting money like I never seen a check before |
Getting blessed like I’ve never ever stressed no more |
Putting bitches on, never getting dressed no more |
I don’t even send a text with address no more |
She just pull up at the door, I finessed that hoe |
Like oowah |
Young nigga savage |
Posted on your backstreet |
With a thick chick |
She looking like an athlete |
In the ave-y |
Saying thick ass Ashley |
I’mma pass her that |
Stick like track meet |
My boys don’t sing |
But they BackStreet |
Yeah, uh |
You don’t need to wonder if I blow |
There’s alot of it |
On my Koji Kondo shit, on my Koji Kondo |
Technicolor platinum silver goals on my front some shit |
On my Koji Kondo shit, on my Koji Kondo |
East Atlanta, South Chicago flows |
Yeah we run this shit |
Don’t you even front bout it, don’t you even front bout it |