| Yeah, uh-huh
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| Yo, yeah, uh
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| Flossin' up at Harry Rosen
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| I stacked fifty last week, I’m 'bout to spend a portion
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| Never divorcin' with this life so I’ma die in gold
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| I abide the code
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| Meanwhile, your cats divide, fold, told and got paroled
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| I ain’t callin' you out, just cross the street where you see me
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| Change the channel 'fore I smack you through the TV
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| From half a gram to a hand-to-hand for a half a gram
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| Now it’s trenchcoats imported from Japan and Amsterdam
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| I have to plan to keep it goin', life is like an escalator
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| You’re counterfeit and I’m the marker used to test the paper
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| We both in the buildin', I’m on a higher floor
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| The bitches that y’all niggas wife I use to test the raw
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| Analyze my resume before you test the water
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| Don’t make me have to fly in shooters from across the border
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| Eatin' celery root and pear bisque with some rare fish
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| Uh, I no longer have to risk it
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| Chillin' in the bodega like I’m a mystic
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| Ayo, you ain’t never met a nigga like me in your life
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| C-Os popped the lock I’m on the yard with the knife
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| Money on ya head, what’s the price? |
| What’s the price?
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| Cooked the whole brick, kitchen ain’t had no light
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| We up at one, though, with the pipe on (Pipe on)
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| Tom Ford Balmain is python (Python)
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| A Chi-Town shooter, he a Vice Lord
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| Why God had to make me so nice for?
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| I’m at the Luxor, the coke on the cut board
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| Baking soda, what the fuck for?
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| The rice with the duck sauce
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| Gunshots’ll drop his lunch off
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| He ain’t dead yet? |
| Had to blow his head the fuck off
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| I’m in the mess hall Thursday eatin' chicken with the drug lords
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| Wholesale, oh well
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| I know they fresh off I just seen the boat sail
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| Buggati coattail
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| My first gone three weeks with no shells
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| Been shootin' ever since, you know me well, you know me well
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| I had a brown-skin girl, same color as my Dutch
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| She said, «Holie, go drag your nuts»
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| She queef melodically, in Greek mythology
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| Nike is the goddess of victory and that lit to me (We lit)
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| The weed has a litany, the side effects, they get to me
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| That shit ain’t shit to me
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| I get higher than a war drone in a war zone
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| I should win awards, bro, and go on tour, ho
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| My niggas on the west side got they guns
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| And Mey came through with a box of ones
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| That’s a day trip to Vegas, we stay lit, hit wages
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| The day is outrageous, I’m pullin' twelve gauges
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| Niggas in yo' bushes, they waitin' to let the K smoke
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| The shooter had to sniff a fifty just so he could stay woke
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| You niggas ain’t got no ambition so y’all gon' stay broke
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| Why you think I’m in this trap kitchen tryna weigh coke?
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| Shit, it’s either that or I slip the teller a bank note
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| My dog just came home, he on parole so he can’t smoke
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| Like Bishop in Juice, three fifty-seven by the ankle
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| Nigga get outta pocket I’m sendin' God back a angel
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| I used to get the boy from a Spanish nigga, Pedro
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| I’m self-made, I ain’t need to sign to a record label
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| Yeah, out on Rodeo pushin' Scaglietti
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| Geiger double-O twos, wear your gloves when you baggin' fetti
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| Who’s the better rapper? |
| I haven’t met 'em
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| Have my little savage wet him, I hope your mama got a casket ready |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Thousand Shot Mac , by - Westside Gunn. Song from the album Flygod Is An Awesome God, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп