| Half and half durags, sippin' the quarter water
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| Quarter in my socks, lord, and we rocked
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| We hopped up out the Porsche and torture (Skrrt)
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| Hermès sport rocker, fiends actin' like it’s a soap opera
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| «West, I’ma die, I need four dollars», no problem
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| Bring back six, and two more niggas
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| Dior dealers, stashed about half in the floor in it (Ah)
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| Ain’t no business like raw business, S6 all tinted
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| Wipe down my guns, make sure it’s authentic
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| Aw shit, head spinnin', lead noodles
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| Monogram collar on the red poodle, Feds will do you filthy
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| Have you comin' home seventy, some shit’ll ever be (Ah)
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| Bentley on Beverly (Skrrt), Palm Angel MAC that shoot heavenly (Brr, brr, brr)
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| Drop kick the brick and hit the Pedigree (Hit the Pedigree, ah)
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| Ayo, bodies on the nine, Murakami with the rhyme (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)
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| My shooter rockin' red Muslim garms 'cause he Slime (Ah)
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| Find another vein, he’ll be fine, we divine (Ah)
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| Skeleton wrist, what a time, what a time (Ah)
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| My nigga got caught with dog food, got a dime (Got a dime)
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| Didn’t drop a dime on the surf, I’ma shine (I'ma shine)
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| We mobbin' on the yard, one was nine, where was Shine? |
| (Where was Shine?)
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| I’m Sly Green in his prime (Ah)
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| Ayo, King Musa, key to what, the Mali gold
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| Hire y’all to hold and keep cleaner than the soul
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| Mean and never highly questionable like Romany Jones
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| The silent plot, the angel investor nobody knows
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| His clothes smellin' like and Somali rose
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| Them fiends histamines keep 'em with a snotty nose (Damn)
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| What a waste like the place where that shotty goes
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| They’ll prolly doze in the corner, tell 'em «Adios»
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| Heron could cop a fake rhyme, but he pushin' neon
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| This coke’ll knock the face off the Spinks like Neon
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| He just an unassumin' normal human, never beyond
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| What seem to be his means, he ain’t tryna do it eon
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| I see him when he park up, he rarely ever talk up
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| The elevator broke, he in a four-story walk up
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| West Indian Archie memory, he ain’t even spark up
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| He pull the plug on every enemy that try to mark up
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| The price point, homie on his kingpin for life joint
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| Big Darby, private island, just him and his wife joint
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| Word, he only visit via charter, still beg, borrow, and barter
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| Son, we gotta move smarter like a Carter
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| And stand in purple rain like Prince in Apollonia
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| Playin' like Chillean seabass in Patagonia
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| It’s only a few that see past the average homie
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| Or the reason for the sneezin', be glad we got pneumonia, kid
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| On some cleaner than the ammonia shit |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Ishkabibble's, artist - Westside Gunn. Album song WHO MADE THE SUNSHINE, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп