| My niggas stare at Rugers, Gucci bit off Iceberg shit, I still copped the Mickey
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| Pissy elevators, hand in hand, I wore Issey, Lord, forgive me
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| Fashion Week, I gave 'em headstarts to Mississippi (Brr, brr, brr)
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| Submachine guns, somebody fucked him, brains hangin' off the frame
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| Blood on the Salvatore Mundi, we rock cocaine (Ah)
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| Tie-dye Dior floss, stickin' niggas up at Christie’s
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| Eugene Delacroixs for half price, leather strings and Rickys
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| Ain’t no eye for eye, you take an eye, we take your whole head (Boom, boom,
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| boom, boom, boom)
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| Shoppin' sprees at galleries, Lafayette, come here let’s hold hands
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| Baggin' at the Mandarin, they can’t take the drip, Balenciaga mannequin
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| Pots dancin' with the grams of fish, whip game scandalous (Ah)
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| My heart got a thousand shadows on it
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| His brain had a lead hollow in it
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| Bloodbaths under the moonlight
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| Spill his guts when the time is right
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| Valentino for his favorite whore, homicidal couture
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| Vintage Mizrahi in the streets of Paris
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| Violence lingers inside me
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| Extortion fills my bon appetit
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| Hogtie him, make him watch a nigga nut in his wife
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| He started to cry
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| I kissed his cheek, then drove the icepick in his eye
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| And one call will have a girl scout on your granddaddy’s porch
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| Cause of death is heart attack on the coroner’s report
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| If he got a felony, it’s guaranteed to excite me
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| Gun and drug charges give me butterflies
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| Evil as Satan, but I see God all in his eyes
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| Ayo, it’s Westside Pootie
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| And my Lamborghini got a backseat, and y’all drive rentals
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| In other words, get your weight up
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| Y’all still broke
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| Oh yeah, and stop copyin' off my daddy, too
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| It’s Griselda
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| Griselda |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Party wit Pop Smoke, artist - Westside Gunn. Album song Pray for Paris, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп