| Wrapped in XLR cables
|
| Up from my whiskers, down to my fuckin' kicks
|
| Wreck-O was echoed in Gordon Geckos
|
| You suckin' dick
|
| Nobody be askin' me for secrets
|
| I ain’t chuckin' tips
|
| I’d rather be bumpin' hips
|
| On that ratchet with muffin tits
|
| Tore up the limits
|
| From Britan visions would rock their lives
|
| Inside a prison where giddy bitches don’t jock the rhyme
|
| Born in precision
|
| Rhythm spittin' could swat a fly
|
| For them to just kick a single shillings from Spotify
|
| Bye, Bye killers
|
| On a high five business
|
| Gonna ride by the sickest
|
| In your high ride to the hitlist
|
| If we ain’t spoke in ages
|
| Then miss me with broken favors
|
| You Miley Cyrus to majors
|
| You twerkin' on swollen razors (run now)
|
| Dont make me come to dinnernail your tounge down
|
| And have you plead your case to us
|
| At Strangeland at sundown
|
| Be careful of the biz
|
| Cause everything has got a price attached
|
| Wake up with a horse head in your bed
|
| And next your life is snatched
|
| Tank full of petro
|
| Bank full of paesos
|
| Pull on my tour bus
|
| Bonus on a payroll
|
| Feel like I be killin' it
|
| Famous on the internet
|
| Really I’m just wingin' it
|
| Cookin' shit on my Kitchenett
|
| Life so good
|
| Right now I need to celebrate
|
| Bout to sell a stadium out
|
| And turn it into rake
|
| Look at how the industry norm
|
| Has started lookin' Strange
|
| All my brothers riding the storm
|
| While they just ride the waves
|
| Caviar wishes
|
| Bitches for my bitches
|
| Black shades and hoodies
|
| And spots and white linens
|
| Feel like Sam Kinison
|
| Preachin' to these citizens
|
| Screamin' at the saints
|
| You ain’t ever gonna get rid of us
|
| Guessin' that I just cleaned my plate
|
| So now I’m gettin' cake
|
| Speedin' down the interstate
|
| Yellin' get out the fuckin' way
|
| We plant flags in the ground
|
| Because we here to stay
|
| And bring my whole hood out
|
| And have my own parade
|
| (Black Gold!)
|
| I purposely wrote this verse
|
| Just to murder this
|
| Member defecate
|
| Disassemble the limbs
|
| Of a nigga who try and seperate
|
| Artistry from nonfiction
|
| Im sent with a conviction
|
| To sentence you pons
|
| Givin' the benz on my diction
|
| There he goes
|
| Speakin' bout how he murk a beat
|
| Smellin' himself
|
| Why else would he flaunt about it so verbally
|
| Dance around me
|
| Like I was a paraplegic
|
| In a doo-cee-doo competition
|
| Lookin pissed like I never heard of feet
|
| Yadda Yadda
|
| A whole lotta yappin'
|
| About my rappin'
|
| When I’m the captain
|
| Of crunchin' you niggas milky dreams
|
| Im the comparison of Pac’s face
|
| Staring in your face
|
| Mock razor blades cut
|
| Leave you crispy clean
|
| Don’t ask Tech
|
| Ask me if it’s questions
|
| Guarantee that he tell you
|
| That I’m the best
|
| And Im destened
|
| To find a snake and a bat
|
| Helpin' Kansas City’s progression
|
| Hopin' I hurt the feelings
|
| Of whoever second guessed it
|
| Cause everybody talkin'
|
| Imma make you niggas hear me
|
| Mind control flow
|
| Now listen to your ears bleed
|
| Spit it sicker than these sicker fans
|
| Keep your dick up in your pants
|
| You were blunted on the block
|
| Me, I had some different plans
|
| I’m trying to get to France
|
| Sniffing grams
|
| Hit a branch
|
| Independent Powerhouse
|
| Vibin' out with the fam
|
| Waking up in different cities
|
| Every night hittin' grants
|
| Stay prepared for this
|
| I’m bearing witness to this sinner man
|
| Stripper dance with cinnamon
|
| Clubbin' with my gentelman
|
| Drink away the nights events
|
| Nothing worth remembering
|
| Squad will run up in this bitch
|
| Mobbin' like some immigrants
|
| Jack you for your paper stack
|
| Rob you of your innocence
|
| Taping of the scene of crimes
|
| Swabbing for my fingerprints
|
| Thought about my life
|
| You thought the same
|
| And couldn’t think of shit (Ha!)
|
| This type of fire dont extinguish
|
| Now write about some bigger shit
|
| You’re striking out
|
| Swing and miss
|
| Ring around the rosy homie
|
| Pocket full of pain
|
| I got a lock up on my lane
|
| And triple optic in my brain, look |