| Yeah, yeah, Kane train
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| Uh, mic check, check
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| Yeah, mic check, check
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| Uh, yeah, yeah, mic check, check
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| Yeah, uh, uh, mic check, check
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| Yeah, uh, nigga, check, check
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| Yeah, yeah, yeah
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| It’s been a long time since I tasted
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| Workin' that hot plate, cookin' in my homeboy basement
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| And Lambo knocked the coke off the table, that nigga waste it
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| I showed him the new straps, the AK with the green laser (Bing, bing, bing)
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| I’m on some street shit, my baby mama tweet shit to stir up my haters
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| I’m like, «Why she wanna stick me for my paper?»
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| But fuck it, that’s life, it’s what you make it, one day you gon' meet your
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| maker
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| Kobe died, I swear a nigga might cry when I watch the Lakers, damn
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| All our mamas would watch us, boy, we was neighbors
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| But how you look a nigga mom in the face when you shot her baby? |
| (Bow)
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| I got skeletons in my closet, right next to Balenciaga
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| Call me Fred DiBiase, garage is a million dollars, my nigga
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| Yeah, it’s just the way that God be plannin' shit
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| I drop a load, I take a load off, that’s load management
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| And last lap, I dropped the ho off and bagged a Spanish bitch
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| Pulled out the dick, she snort the coke off, I’m livin' lavishly
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| Yeah, Kane, huh
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| Bitch nigga, you know what it is, baby, yeah
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| Told you from the go
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| Told you from the get go
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| You ain’t gotta go home, but you gotta go
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| Uh, ain’t no Ls on my jacket
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| The MAC-11 hit your melon and crack it (Crack it)
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| Ain’t no pads for that in that medicine cabinet (No)
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| Can’t mess with whatever’s in that gelatin tablet (Fuck that)
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| Ten metal fragments can flip your skeleton backwards (Flip 'em)
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| All you seen after that was blackness (Mm)
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| This ain’t no backpack shit, he slangs half a brick
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| Bitch, you need to ease back a bit, the trench has cactus pins (Ow)
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| The seats in the Benz Lenny Kravitz skin, don’t get your cabbage split (Tan
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| shit)
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| It don’t matter what establishment, we in it (We gettin' shipped the fuck out)
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| Always get the biggest chicken wing, you don’t get to eat on one onion ring
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| At least a hundred Jesus links underneath the mink
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| Yellow Bugatti look like a bumblebee
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| Compressor on the front to muffle the heat
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| The submachine gun, it come with the beam amongst other things that’s unseen
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| To run with me, you need sunscreen cream, see I’m covered in bling (Bling)
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| Motherfucker, ain’t no shade, even under the trees where monkeys swing
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| (Ah-ah-ah)
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| The marijuana money green, I’m runnin' the company like a drug ring
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| Livin' comfortably off of gut instinct
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| That fell upon me once I was done with the streets (Uh)
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| You still scheme in public, P, let me bring you up to speed
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| You get your wig spun like a tumbleweed in Belize, I get on the beat and bleed
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| (Bleed)
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| Sacrifice of livin' and bein' to please deities
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| Them were VVs, flood the big Nefertiti piece (Ayo)
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| I had the rusty forty-five, I had the MAC, too
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| (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, brr, I had the MAC too,
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| brr)
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| You hang with a rat, you a rat, too (You's a rat, too)
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| We used to chip in on the big, bag it up, that’s my rent
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| You take a shift, I take a shift, the feds come, raise my kids
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| Take my phone, keep the licks goin', never bust a brick open (Ah)
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| 12−12 baggers was baggin', flaggin'
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| Rick Owens over pots, hand me some ice, he left the fridge open
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| I’m tryna see my kids grow up, y’all niggas' ribs showin'
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| God made light, Dolce Gabbana on my A-like day and night (Day and night)
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| My young niggas’ll take your life (Boom, boom, ah, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)
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| East side niggas’ll never change (They'll never change)
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| Brick come through and spill your brains (Brr, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom,
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| boom, boom, brr) |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song $500 Ounces, artist - Westside Gunn. Album song Pray for Paris, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп