Lyrics City, Sos, & Me - Westside Gunn

City, Sos, & Me

So there’s no use in asking
Your point of view
Ayo, the drop pair cherry red
Red bottoms, Mack Elev, we will clap your head
Medusa head locs, loft kitchen reek of coke
Cocaine Carreras, parlayin' me and Sos
Bricks for what?
Get ten of 'em
Get Killa Tone a Bushmaster, he’ll flip somethin'
Big chains on, I’m lookin' rich
Bust the duct tape, it smelled like piss
KTZ sweatsuit down to the kicks
Stepped on the dope twice
All black oyster, P roll with the pink ice
Mink white, 50 shots before he can blink twice
Got his brains leanin' to the side like some cheap Nikes
Easy come, easy go, wack him for his Yeezy 1's
Eazy-E Raider snap back that match the joints
Lookin' like Schoeder kid, hold up
Mix the cryonite with the China white, bet my niggas blow up
Rolls Royce rolled up
That nigga did 20 flat—nigga, so what?
We them new niggas hangin' out the roof, the truth
Mix the Pérignon with the grapefruit
Moschino gloves on the hammer
Shot his man up at Barney’s choppin' grams up
World premiere, hang that nigga from the lid
Rocks clear, choppers swingin' from the chandelier
The flyest nigga on this mic, shit, I swear
When I got my first brick I dropped tears
12−12 A resumes with cooked flake
I was fucked up, I got a back off of big gate
Adolf Versace plates
Malcolm X Prada frames analyze the snakes
Human made joggers cuz they sweatin' me
It’s got an apron on flexin' the recipe
All this gold on might be the death of me
The six kilo Cuban link especially
Coke on my sweatshirt like Heavy D
Chanel mask on baggin' heavy D
Rolls Royce rolled up
That nigga did 20 flat—nigga, so what?
We them new niggas hangin' out the roof, the truth
Mix the Pérignon with the grapefruit
So what have you got for me?
John Doe.
Between 25−30 years of age.
Cause of death looks like OG
Over gold.
Any signs of foul play, Ronnie?
No, sir.
Looks like a case of just too many gold chains