| Thirty hangin' out the well done, we live in Hell, son
|
| Residue in my finger, weigh to split with a hand scale
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| Three hundred grams’ll leave your man still (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)
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| Don’t mind me speakin' coke, I talk it fluent
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| Word to ChineGun, I dropped the brick, it came back congruent (Ah)
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| Why you stuntin'? |
| (Why you stuntin'?)
|
| Why your fifty a piece? |
| Lord, you buggin' (Lord, you buggin')
|
| Slam the stove like «Hacksaw"Jim Duggan (Like «Hacksaw"Jim Duggan, ah)
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| Yo, the kick on the MAC like Alistair Black (Brr, brr, ah)
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| Black got caught, he ain’t never came back (He ain’t never came back)
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| Remain solid, greet my brothers with
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| On the cot, gained the knowledge (Ah)
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| Shootouts with your stylist (Brr, brr, ah), these kicks three thousand dollars
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| Ayo, my clip, plus his clip, plus his clip (Doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot,
|
| boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, brr,
|
| brr)
|
| My shot will shoot your block down, nigga, for the fuck of it (Doot, doot, doot,
|
| doot, doot, doot, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom,
|
| boom, boom, for the fuck of it, ah)
|
| Put money on your head, you’ll be dead by dinner time (Boom, boom, boom, boom,
|
| boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, you’ll be dead by
|
| dinner time, brr)
|
| The MAC-13, squeeze it like lemon lime (Squeeze it like lemon lime, brr)
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| Niggas will put a price on your life and won’t think twice
|
| Sicilians that will slice, slice dope still like prosciutto
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| Rocked to sleep by a Geisha doll straight from Tokyo
|
| I’m the ghetto Diana Ross, he’s the hood Billy Dee
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| Sexiest poet on the planet, epiphany of destiny
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| Tony Morrison with a pistol, oxycontin, methamphetamine crystals
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| All these niggas startin' to sound unofficial
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| Balmain cufflinks, Dapper Dan threadings
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| Saint Lucia ocean front weddings, from a city of monsters
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| Demons, schemin', kidnappin', and beheadings
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| Where your own blood will take the witness stand
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| And this forty’ll take him right back to the promised land
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| Chasin' Ferraris, spiralin' out of control
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| Grimy bitch from the gutter, and I mean that from my soul
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| Ayo, it’s Westside Pootie, and we still gettin' money
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| Six cars in the driveway and six bedrooms in the house
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| I’m seven years old, eatin' one hundred dollar plates
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| Y’all don’t know what that taste like
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| Gucci shoes, Gucci socks, Gucci pants, Gucci top
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| But the hat Louis, we tasteless, yeah, yeah, we tasteless
|
| Three years ago, I told y’all to stop copyin' off my daddy
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| And y’all still broke, this is Griselda
|
| Griselda |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Lessie , by - Westside Gunn. Song from the album WHO MADE THE SUNSHINE, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп