Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Claires Back , by - Westside Gunn. Release date: 26.08.2021
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Claires Back |
| World famous DJ Clue? |
| Desert storm |
| Ayo |
| Westside Gunn |
| Y’all niggas fronting, man |
| Y’all big homies ain’t got no paper |
| Rrrrrrrrrrrt (Grrrrrrrrrrt) |
| Ayo |
| We still spinning records from '99 |
| Ayo |
| Get that Griselda |
| Let’s go |
| How your big homie don’t got no money? |
| Travis Scott factors, all money rugby |
| niggas in Ferrari buggys |
| You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie? |
| The niggas who used to love don’t love me |
| Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me» |
| Ayo |
| Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me» |
| Ayo Amiri high tops with the bones |
| You ever pull it out, you’d better shoot it till it’s all gone |
| If you make it back with no song |
| Name another rapper kicking chopper on the phone |
| Selling brick after brick after brick, I’m in the zone |
| My nigga found God, now he in a cell reading on the regular |
| Tell Ye «You need to have Sunday Service in this hoe» |
| Got the pole on me, make the wrong movie |
| So on the floor we took a headshot |
| Now when he talk, he talking slow |
| Dro' bricks, thousand miles, no bad chromogen |
| It’s four hundred flat eras getting fly like that |
| Get you killed for five thousand on the weekday |
| Lept in it, had dice games up in |
| ECW, Simmon off the rope |
| How your big homie don’t got no money? |
| Travis Scott factors, all money rugby |
| niggas in Ferrari buggys |
| You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie? |
| The niggas who used to love me don’t love me |
| Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me» |
| Ayo |
| Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me» |
| Ayo |
| That’s fuckin God, nigga (That's fuckin God, nigga) |
| The Richard Mille on my motherfuckin' wrist, that’s God, nigga |
| The kilo on my other wrist, that’s God, nigga |
| The three kilos in my neck, that’s God, nigga |
| A hundred in each ear, that’s God, nigga |
| Whoooo |
| Thirty thousand in my mouth, that’s God, nigga |
| And I still got about half a million somewhere else I don’t even fuckin' put on |
| no more, nigga (Nuh uh) |
| That’s God, nigga |
| See, I get offended easily (Very fuckin' easily) |
| Stupid bitch gon' ask me if I was a millionaire |
| I got that shit in art, bitch (Bitch) |
| I got three cars that’s a million, bitch (Stupid bitch) |
| I got that at jewels, bitch |
| I got that at clothes, bitch |
| You do the fuckin' math (You do the fuckin' math) |
| Eastside Buffalo nigga (Argh) |
| Free my nigga Sly (Free Kutter, free Lo') |
| Free (Free my nigga Cease) |
| Agh |
| And this sport seems to just get a little more violent every time I step into |
| the ring |
| Please, ladies and gentleman, here on Long Island |
| Welcome the world Television champion |
| Griselda |
| Rrrrrrrrt |
| You know we still in the streets, nigga |
| Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt |
| Still getting money outside nigga |
| Look |
| The Scorpion in the scale, that’s why they gotta pay us |
| Violators still got old blood, try to pull a razor |
| Fire the yay' up, got every arm and hammer box on the Bodega |
| Now I’m way up and I’ve run out of favors |
| Hope y’all got y’all weight up |
| They try to score on us, we chase down, block the layup |
| Y’all, y’all niggas is federal cooperators |
| Green money counters on the counter, count my paper |
| Hundred thousand dollar wages when I’m out in Vegas |
| My bitch hope out the Bentayga, body like Teyana Taylor |
| Silly dog, you know my product come from, Venezuela |
| Bricks are fitting off the forty, I got za in different flavors |
| Catch me rocking all my jewelry court-side watching the Lakers |
| Bitch my lights so beautiful, used to bag five eights |
| I had white in my cuticles |
| My shooter popping thirty’s, he must like pharmaceuticals |
| Thirty on him, ain’t no telling what he might come do to you |
| Cullinan; |
| you know it’s me |
| You see the white one moving through, got a beam on the stick |
| Griselda, we the truer living kings of this shit |
| Fashion Rebel purple brand Gs with the stitch |
| You know that, it’s Conway aka the Machine, bitch |
| Uh |
| This shit I learned in the trenches just made us felons |
| Did a bid and when I rode to the crib, she saved the lettuce |
| When you come up and they don’t get to eat with you, that make em jealous |
| You should only be concerned with the paper we made together |
| Sorry I’m not sorry, block parties to yacht parties |
| I’m a trapper, I answer first thing when a pop call me |
| Speeding, doing sixty over the limit then drive 'Rari's |
| If I can’t make brick money off it, it’s not for me |
| Land in your city private, you know how boys do |
| The driver on the tar mac, you know how boys move |
| In three suburbans back to back, we bring the convoy through |
| I rode in five hundred horses without the cowboy boots |
| My rep with the connect, that’s what got me to work cheap |
| I’m independent still, my numbers be silent the first week |
| I’m the Butcher, niggas load up they Glocks when they heard me |
| I make the December 25th feel like Friday the 13th |
| When I told Def Jam my number, they said «No problem» |
| Seven figures just for rapping, feel like I robbed them |
| I’m the truth, but ask these rappers and they gon' say I’m a problem |
| And I get it 'cause I did it like Guy Fisher in Harlem, nigga |
| Argh |
| Griselda |
| The Butcher coming, nigga |