| Basslinin' to them pops
|
| Eighty five for the top
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| Speeding out to the trades
|
| Twenty five for the flake
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| Thirty five for a block
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| Eighteen for the half
|
| Ninety five for the quarter
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| Fifty five for an eighth
|
| Twenty eight for the split
|
| Twelve hundred for a zip
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| Weigh the work while it’s wet
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| And let it dry from the plate
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| Cuz bought a quarter from me
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| Can’t sure he’ll be loyal to me
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| Scraping up that lawyer money
|
| He just caught another case
|
| Tie it down to twelve straights
|
| Pack it up in all tens
|
| Makin' forty off the bricky
|
| But he triple out of state
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| Different rentals, switchin' plates
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| With the kibbles and them bits
|
| All my niggas shootin' trips
|
| Playing with them 10 0−8
|
| Missed call from the plug
|
| But he callin' from the clink
|
| Water runnin' in the sink
|
| Blake Griffin off the break
|
| Alley-oop up at the rim
|
| Work jumpin' off the gym
|
| Dope runnin' off the stem
|
| But they love that oil-base
|
| I was stayin' in Kahlua
|
| You were stayin' in the sewer
|
| Hundred grand on computer
|
| Thousand dollar graphic card
|
| When you still crackin' cars
|
| Lemme put 'em in their place
|
| Like I’m working real estate
|
| Put these niggas in a cape
|
| Always tryna save a dot
|
| You forgot about the gwap
|
| 3D printed me an ounce
|
| Got it from a Google doc
|
| Reinvested in the rap
|
| VPS and red and black
|
| Sales poppin' where I’m at
|
| Ain’t no mercy for a rat
|
| I bet she poppin' now
|
| APC, drop 'em down
|
| Bitch was flexin', said she rich from pension
|
| Yeah, she drop 'em down
|
| Pick em' up and hop into the whip
|
| When niggas not around
|
| Type that fuck a nigga in your crib
|
| When you outta town (ooh)
|
| Ooh need a body brought
|
| Haul that shawty out the car
|
| Type to tell twelve that I’m gone when I gotta hide
|
| Chop it up and put it on a plate like it’s a la carte
|
| But she knew it was that oil-base
|
| 'Cause it wouldn’t dry
|
| (Bass)
|
| Eh yo
|
| I’m at the dry-cleaners
|
| Fat strings in my Adidas
|
| Boomboxin', hip-hoppin' out the motherfuckin' Beamer
|
| Moochie pulled up in a Saab, dawg, I had to rethink it
|
| I gotta get another job and count it up in the machine
|
| Crackin' numbers
|
| Patent leather on my jumper
|
| Follow through with the wrist
|
| When you whip it, square your shoulders
|
| I don’t know it, just to show it
|
| Cost a brick to break it open
|
| And I told your goofy ass when you met her, she was gone
|
| Bend it back, six five, let it crack
|
| Eh, don’t you touch shit
|
| I gotta count it where it’s at
|
| The stone cold stunner come and drop you on your neck
|
| Ted DiBiase, that’s the million dollar plan
|
| Damn, eh, you dropped a hunnid K
|
| Just to get that shit snatched when you got to L.A.
|
| Them niggas made you buy it back
|
| Why you lying in your raps?
|
| If you ain’t bought the bag
|
| Then you pinching out the sack, nigga
|
| You should come and vibe with me
|
| (Bass)
|
| (Bass) |