| Cyn Santana with the dog filter’s everything honey
|
| That’s food for the sharks, shit, ‘cus everything’s chummy
|
| You big dummy, Scoobavelli we tricked her
|
| Copped the Crab Louie, andouille and Celery Victor
|
| Catch my good side in the flicks by Richter
|
| We out in Woodside, smacked off the elixir
|
| Picture a Ganga in some Dennis Busenitz
|
| Own the building and we got tenants
|
| Shit he copped a fleet of homes
|
| Right next to Rashida Jones
|
| To each is own, Kraft mac or Velveeta prone
|
| We eat alone and make a toast to sobriety
|
| Slurping bivalves of the east coast variety
|
| The diet be, whatever we might be keen to bake
|
| Himalayan rock salt topped with Tajima steak
|
| Waiting ‘til its daybreak
|
| You a day late, shit, protect the namesake
|
| And it boils, and it really takes not only a lot of people
|
| Who have uh confidence in their area but
|
| Genuine teamwork
|
| A-yo I roll up, Nissan Juke color of puke
|
| Niggas that your mother rebuke, smothered in Duke
|
| A fake alumni, shorty baking apple crumb pie
|
| A big momma known to lap it up and leave a numb thigh
|
| Push the Hyundai, high yella, she buys Stella’s
|
| And recently got her prescription filled for the Kybella
|
| Nah, just Leave your jowl the way it is
|
| Your wattles ain’t hanging half as low as they say it is
|
| Ok it is, couldn’t tell you what day it is or year it is
|
| But If Dopp Hopp was a beer it’d be an IPA
|
| Got a wipey and tray for the ABDL fetish
|
| Is you changing my diapy bae?
|
| Aye, It’s like the words to a certain song
|
| We steady mobbing 'til the day that the curtains drawn
|
| My Word is born shorty bobbing and flirting strong
|
| Four in the morn when my nigga Robin Lundberg is on
|
| We gone |