| I’m smoking big killa on the Clearwater beach
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| And every time I speak I hear «Go ahead your honor, preach.»
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| I’m too hot for you niggas not to acknowledge me
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| The prodigy could talk a married bitch out of monogamy
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| I’m out of reach but your posture ain’t looking promising
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| I’m pressing pussies, gynecology, you niggas robbing me
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| I deserve respect, cut a check, fuck and investment meet
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| For all the mess it has to for tracks I handle recklessly
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| I’m Glen Rice from the corner, three, in there
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| Swimwear twisted like Dub-C chin hair
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| I payed Holyfield to take the dive
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| Fix the drug test, we getting richer
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| Blood or a spritzer
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| Cherry oak wood shifter
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| In a Jaguar, shoes are made from Babar
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| Roll the lethal
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| Seats in the Regal same color as Mario Van Peebles
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| I’m like a young Stephen Seagal
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| My favorite move’s a clothesline
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| Dragon jacket, hair slicked back when it’s go time
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| Motherfucker I’m a great artist
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| I fixed the game between Georgia Tech and Wake Forest
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| Fly shit we make that, Marvel we bake that
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| Pull a shotty, leave your body where the lake’s at
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| Staying foul places, strip clubs with meth faces
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| All my fam’s thumbs smell like gloves that catch cases
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| Not trying to glorify, but my story’s obnoxious
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| Y’all faggot rappers wash your faces in a box of sausage
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| Surpreme server, bare burger when we order ostrich
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| Opposite of niggas poppin' shit cause we pop lips for gossip
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| Fluent Jewish lock it, gun black like Lewis Gossett
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| Predict the profit so I prophesize the fucking profit
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| Plush thoughts flood to Christopher Cross
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| Throw out the Rollie with the salt, park the Renault
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| Your number was called
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| I grip the nine iron like golf
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| Wipe 'em off
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| At night ride the white horse with the torch
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| You bleed out by the court while I’ve leaving court
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| Defeat of course, my cohorts snort
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| Pop a wart and read the robber port
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| Drive a quattroporte
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| Step on the product with the Rockports
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| Spark a Newport
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| Whip up a stew, this is food for thought
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| Pursue the course and floss in the newest Porsche
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| Tell your stories running, walking isn’t fast enough
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| These cats will lap you up like milk out of a plastic cup
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| You bastards stuck somewhere between fragile and half a chump
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| I’d bet you fucks a thousand bucks your dad wishes he’s wrapped it up
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| We rapscallions, like a bundle of onions
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| How you find the gumption to be out here trying to function
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| I fixed the game dog, I’m neutering the poodle
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| Got the ruger to your noodle and the goons are yelling «Who you?»
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| The rental car’s window’s rose-tinted, dope in it
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| The credit card got a tank in it, no limit |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song 1010 Wins , by - The Alchemist. Song from the album Rapper's Best Friend 3: An Instrumental Series, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп