Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song My Boy [Freestyle], artist - Wale. Album song Free Lunch, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 13.09.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Maybach, Warner
Song language: English
My Boy [Freestyle] |
Count me in, Cole |
Right here? |
(Nah, not yet) |
Yeah, bounce, bounce |
My boy, my boy |
My boy, my boy, my boy |
Yeah, right here? |
Ay, look, uh, yo, okay |
Concrete since day one, ain’t no time to make up |
Ain’t no top on that hoe, like baby with the A-cup |
Thank you for your services, invoicing all my haters |
Be sure to leave your armor and your woman penetrated |
I give her back, I hate her, poof, get out of here |
I say congratulations, your old lady renovated |
You niggas lazy, my boy, why you hatin', my guy? |
You bought her Commes des Garçons |
She come and play with your heart |
I’m far from a popular artist, one of the hardest, no lesser |
And I saw your woman, I caught her low like a Cardigan sweater |
Call her whatever you want, I got my revenue up |
In Beverly Hills, my ceilings like the Beverly brothers |
Since day one, Folarin been the same one |
I came up in them go-gos most of them was afraid of |
Now kill mo', say that, now kill mo', say that |
But when your wheel is a fortune, you ne’er gotta say jack |
Don’t be talking too much, these niggas copy too much |
These niggas cardio crazy, chasing clout must be tough |
Fuck it, I wrote me, a dozen niggas got me fucked up |
I raise my hands and raise your family’s casualties up |
I’m faded, I’m playing |
These niggas don’t be no gangster, they be paying it, yeah |
Extortion ain’t dead, it just moved to the county |
Shoot them out the S-class, I guess truancy the problem |
I know every who and who and every hoodlum around him |
And what you call a piece of mind, I call a picture for a bounty |
Hold up, yeah, I’m in my luggage, in my luggage |
Hold up, boy, I’m on the runway like I’m Duckie |
Hold up, prolific, really be living my lyrics |
So tell me who did it this big and who ain’t 'bout to slow up? |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
Who gon' bring my crown? |
And who gon' try to fuck with me? |
Faded off the brown, she can’t get enough of me |
I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury |
Bitch it’s going down, and ain’t no catching up to me |
Yeah, stepped in the building with my vibe on a million |
Slide on the beat like my God, I’m so brilliant |
All other rappers, put your pride to the side |
Try collide with the squad, turn your mob into corn on the cob |
You’s a fraud, you’s a thorn in my side |
I’m a knife in your back, I’m that turn of the knob |
On the door when the boys from the corner come rob you |
And tie you up to something, now stop with all that frontin' |
That big money talk should be reserved for those that got it |
But when you really got it, you ain’t pressed to talk about it |
That’s why I hear that capping on your raps and highly doubt it |
The game too crowded, I’m 'bout to get all the way the fuck up out it |
No ifs, ands or buts about it |
30 mil' on a deal depending on how the tour was routed |
I seen your watch when you first dropped, that shit was clouded |
Which means you used to fugazi shit |
Fake it 'til you make it-type, I shoot through you crazy with |
Hollow tips, no holler backs, just hotter raps |
I gotta black to make sure every dirty dollar stacked |
Y’all aiming for the stars, bitch, I’m aiming at your Starter cap |
Run, nigga, run like a fucking black quarterback (uh) |
Stereotypical, but to hear me is pivotal |
I will bury you niggas and come and air out your funeral |
Have your homies on stretchers right next to Roman numerals |
IVs, IVs |
It’s the reason why nobody try me, try me |
Have a nigga screaming, «Lord, why me? |
Why me? |
Cole did me grimy |
He took it too far, he treat them bullets like they Siamese» |
Back to back, I clap like that’s a wrap |
But no video shoots, just hoodies and boots |
Puttin' your troops in pine boxes |
I blew a million on white tees and Calvin Klein boxers |
This nigga silly |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
My boy, my boy, my boy, say what! |
Who gon' bring the crown? |
And who gon' try to fuck with me? |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
Faded off the brown, she can’t get enough of me |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
Bitch it’s going down, nobody catching up to me |
My boy, my boy, my boy, my boy, my boy |
Who gon' bring my crown? |
And who gon' try to fuck with me? |
Faded off the brown, she can’t get enough of me |
I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury |
Bitch it’s going down, and ain’t no catching up to me |
Who gon' bring my crown? |
And who gon' try to fuck with me? |
Faded off the brown, and she can’t get enough of me |
I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury |
Bitch it’s going down, it ain’t no catching up to me |
Who gon' bring my crown? |
And who gon' try to fuck with me? |
Faded off the brown, and she can’t get enough of me |
I don’t play around, don’t got that type of luxury |
Bitch it’s going down, it ain’t no catching up to me |