Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Racks On Racks, artist - Wiz Khalifa. Date of issue: 06.05.2012
Racks On Racks |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Getting brain when I’m talking on the phone |
| Spending money when you’re runnin' this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Got lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1000 dollars worth of strong |
| Well, the club 'bout to hear this song |
| We got racks on racks on racks |
| Got racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Ain’t even tryna hold back |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Gettin' brain when I’m talkin' on the phone |
| Spendin' money when youre' runnin this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Straight lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1,000 dollars of strong |
| We"re in the club 'bout to hear this song |
| Still fresh as hell in my Trues |
| Iced out, okay cool |
| Strapped up, know I keep that tool |
| That racks on racks so motherfucking fool |
| I’m about to glow, me on TV |
| Everywhere you look, you see YC |
| Hating-ass niggas just wishing they were me |
| YC, YC, YC |
| Way too big for my my fucking jeans |
| I’m so fly I don’t even got wings |
| Eyes real low, just blame it on the green |
| Girl cut up, got lean on lean |
| That shoebox shit, over with |
| Spend 100 racks, won’t notice it |
| My bank account, commas all over it |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Young, if it’s convertible, then how is it a hardtop |
| Bitch, I hit one button, my roof open like a hard spot |
| Make me throw my diamonds up, bitch, my life was hard knock |
| Had so much kush and Ciroc, bitch, I think my heart stop |
| Every night’s a weekend, every day’s a Friday night |
| You ain’t seen nothing yet, bitch, this just my Friday ice |
| 87, brick fare, yeah, I’m talking thirty racks |
| All I sold is hundos, where the fuck my twenties at |
| Racks on, racks off, see that blonde strip when my hat’s off |
| Lookin' at my Rollie, 'bout thirty grand what that cost |
| Smoke like I’m in Cali, fuck takin' flight, I blast off |
| Niggas talkin' tattooes, we should have a tat-off |
| Got racks on racks on racks, naps on naps on naps |
| Just made a mill, count another mill, so put that on top of that |
| Way back in 2004, I told ‘em it was a wrap |
| Now my life ain’t my life no more, I told you niggas, a wrap |
| You claim you a dog, my nigga, I’m the vet |
| We can’t even talk ‘less you got the check |
| I guess that’s why all of these niggas get bent |
| They said, fuck a young nigga, fuck a young nigga |
| I know it’s some girls in the crowd right who wanna fuck a young nigga |
| I roll one and roll another one bigger |
| Niggas thinkin' they sick, well, I’m sicker |
| Right, I’m smoke my weed and I’m a drink my liquor |
| Better make sure you fuck your girl right ‘fore I dick her down |
| I got racks on top of racks, stacks on top of stacks |
| Bands on top of bands, got me fuckin' her and her friends |
| Backwoods don’t do papers, that was just for my haters |
| Clap two times if you drunk |
| Got a bad bitch from the U. K |
| She do everything I say |
| Go crazy when she hear music |
| She got Grove St. on replay |
| Got racks you don’t understand |
| Money long from here to Japan |
| Know it good when she go no hands |
| Girl, you got me in a trance |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Getting brain when I’m talking on the phone |
| Spending money when you’re runnin' this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Got lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1000 dollars worth of strong |
| Well, the club 'bout to hear this song |
| We got racks on racks on racks |
| Got racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Ain’t even tryna hold back |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Gettin' brain when I’m talkin' on the phone |
| Spendin' money when youre' runnin this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Straight lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1,000 dollars of strong |
| We"re in the club 'bout to hear this song |
| Got racks on racks on racks, y’all rap so wack on wax |
| Purple by the pound, that’s that Flacco, haaaa |
| I make big plays, I got big chips |
| Blew money like six Crips |
| Switch gears like stick shifts |
| Fresh as hell, I’m Big Gipp |
| We buy cars, y’all flip whips |
| Catch us smokin' that Quik Trip |
| Pitch piff, that’s a handspring |
| I like to call that a quick flip |
| Pull triggers like hamstrings |
| Boy, I’m doin' my damn thing |
| Been blood with them bricks, pimp |
| Get off a key like I can’t sing |
| Got the seven on me like Vick jersey |
| Ridin' round, and this bitch dirty |
| I’m the best, hands down |
| They nicknamed me 6:30 |
| And we Young Dose and YC |
| Redan Road, that’s my street |
| Ask around on the Eastside |
| I’m the S, h-i-t |
| Bun B, I’m underground king |
| In the candy-painted car on swang |
| With the top on drop and the trunk on pop |
| Boy, you can’t tell me a damn thang |
| Fifth wheel on the back just hang |
| Hit corners, hit licks, hit stains |
| With the grill in the front, wood wheel in the blunts |
| You’re on neon lights in my bank |
| Yeah, I rep that P-A-T |
| One hundred, yeah, that’s me |
| If you don’t recognize, you gon' see |
| I’m a straight-up trill OG |
| In a black-on-black-on-black |
| Cadillac, like a Mack on clacks |
| Try to jack and I will attack |
| It’s a fact that I ain’t givin' up my stacks like that |
| Call me Bobby Ray, but it’s not two names |
| Flyin' through the city, all-black, Bruce Wayne |
| No, not bombs over Baghdad |
| But on the track you can call me Usain |
| That’s why they nervous, hmmm, like I’m flying on the plane with a turban |
| But I’m fly, y’all just turbulence, exit row, emergency (Mayday!) |
| As a kid, I was struck by lightning, it’s no wonder I’m electrifying |
| Fuck a brainstorm, I’ll fuck around and cause a power outage |
| And it ain’t no rivals, if it was, it’d be no survivors |
| Just gimme a hour, I’ll light it up like an Eiffel Tower |
| Got bales on top of bales, scales on top of scales |
| I’m Mr. All White, got yay on top of yay |
| Got pills all on my phone, these niggas know I’m wrong |
| Said fifty for a song, and they won’t leave me alone |
| Gotta front me a brick, that ain’t nothin' to you |
| Just ran through a ticket, that ain’t nothing to do |
| Yeah, I love these streets like I love the booth |
| Mr. Cocaine Muzik, I’m 100 proof |
| Got white on white on white, ice on ice on ice |
| And when I’m in the club it look like lights on lights on lights |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Getting brain when I’m talking on the phone |
| Spending money when you’re runnin' this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Got lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1000 dollars worth of strong |
| Well, the club 'bout to hear this song |
| We got racks on racks on racks |
| Got racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Ain’t even tryna hold back |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Gettin' brain when I’m talkin' on the phone |
| Spendin' money when youre' runnin this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Straight lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1,000 dollars of strong |
| We"re in the club 'bout to hear this song |
| Racks on racks on racks, I’m tryna smash and not call back |
| My name Wale, you so silly, wet my willie, might call you a cab |
| Yeah, riding around with that reefer scent |
| Riding around with Ms. Reece and them |
| When I’m in the groove, I can freak a tune |
| I’m smoother than alopecia skin |
| I shows out, like dope when I put that flow down |
| Like soap when I put my clothes on, I’m joking but I be foamed out |
| And all she want is more bags, but all I want is more 1s |
| I told her, bring that money back like all them racks is Nordstrom’s |
| The tracks on snack off raps, see stacks from back of my slacks |
| From X to the max in the Ac, if I ain’t strapped, then the gat’s on scat |
| Then he black on em like Tae-Bo, then he clap on ‘em like bravo |
| Throw sacks on ‘em like y’all hoes, got racks on em like Tahoes |
| Young Money, Cash Money so strong, keep scorin', I’ma bring it on home |
| Those Xans and the lean cause zones, somethin' tan with a mean jawbone |
| Worldwide, but I got fourth ways, one hat carry like four blades |
| Petey Pop Off, RIP, free Lou, been lootin' money since like fourth grade |
| I’m the shit nowadays, so they wave, no whips, no chains, I’m a slave |
| Let you niggas know Milita my gang, MCN if you was thinkin' it’s a game |
| See me with the twin, buck a shimmy with the gauge |
| Wasn’t bustin' Jimmy, I’d be busy gettin' paid |
| Goin' for the grips every day 'til the grave |
| I be worried about the chips, you be worried about the lays |
| Got Actavis in my Sprite, Benjamins in my Robins |
| Frank Muller wit' flooded ice, but I still got my breitling |
| In the fast lane, gettin' slow brain in a 2012 Maserati |
| I’m kickin', pimpin', like Liu Kang, my coupe smokin' like Friday |
| Puffin' on that garlic, cigar full of Marley |
| Inked up on my hands and arms, got them jams in my pocket |
| Shout out to Sha Money, signed me in a hurry |
| Daddy was a kingpin, a couple milli buried |
| Nigga, you ain’t talkin' nothin', all in Flight Club stuntin' |
| These exclusive 7s, pay 400 for the Jordans |
| No, you can’t afford ‘em, sharper than a swordsman |
| Racks on racks, our campaign strong, and YC like my brother |
| Catch me in the city with the trunk on crack |
| Top dropped down, black on black |
| Fistful of wood, Swisher full of good |
| Check my bank account, got racks on racks |
| Look around, fool, got a wall full of plaques |
| Platinum and gold, you gots to love that |
| Posted up just like a thumbtack |
| Better hide ya ho, 'cause she bound to get snatched |
| H-Town, Texas to ATL |
| She got a fat ass, she prolly know me well |
| Keep it on the low, never kiss and tell |
| True player, Cory Mo cold as hell |
| Shows to do, got record to sell |
| Got a whole lotta BMI checks in the mail |
| If ballin' was a crime, I’d be in jail |
| Locked up for double life like «What the hell?» |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Getting brain when I’m talking on the phone |
| Spending money when you’re runnin' this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Got lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1000 dollars worth of strong |
| Well, the club 'bout to hear this song |
| We got racks on racks on racks |
| Got racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Ain’t even tryna hold back |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Gettin' brain when I’m talkin' on the phone |
| Spendin' money when youre' runnin this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Straight lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1,000 dollars of strong |
| We"re in the club 'bout to hear this song |
| Yeah, they call me Country Grammar |
| My brother out the slammer |
| I’m crimson color painted |
| You can call that Alabama |
| I’m not from Alabama |
| But check out how I roll tide |
| He might have the same whip |
| But check out how I roll mine |
| Y’all niggas ain’t no stars |
| Y’all only in it for the cars |
| The sky is your limit, mayne |
| And mine somewhere bout Mars |
| I ride with them boys in the middle of the map |
| St. Louis, Detroit, Chi-town, Nap |
| Down through the Dirty, back up through the trap |
| But the money don’t stack, man money overlap |
| Yeah, y’all better watch it, mayne, right here we lock and load |
| Two things is for certain, mayne and one thing is fa sho' |
| Got a house on hundred acres |
| I’ve never seen my neighbors |
| A chick in ATL and from Buckhead to Decatur |
| Now y’all better leave me alone, got license for my chrome |
| Police on your mama phone, talking bout your baby gone |
| Tell the truth, I ain’t gon' lie, I got so many rides |
| Don’t know which one I’ma drive, fuck it, I’m just gone fly |
| Everybody wanna hate because I’m on |
| Blowing head back, bottles by the zone |
| Twista finna get up on the track |
| And spit it the way I do simp-a-ly because I like this song |
| When I step up out the Maserati car |
| Gotta pull it, pull it, pull it, pull it from the jar |
| Then I blow, I’ma close out the par |
| Wit' some killers and everybody know who we are |
| Get Money Gang stepping through the door, Chi-cago, cago, cago |
| Anybody wanna get into it, come on |
| And do it, for security, we gon' make a pit a flow |
| Might as well get it off yo' chest |
| While everybody got ammunition on deck |
| I don’t see them T-Dum-Izzle as a threat |
| Cause I got racks on racks on racks |
| Oh, Twista, I see your future, finna shoot ya |
| I salute you if you could get at the general in military |
| Racks and racks and tracks and stacks and gats |
| I could destroy an entire village when I kill and bury |
| ‘Cause I manipulate your molecular structure |
| Other words, fill ‘em up wit' holes |
| If you try to give it to me at the door |
| I just thought I had to let you know |
| (I bet your bitch call me Big) |
| I got single bitches tryin', married bitches lyin' |
| I take ‘em to the crib and leave our future in a condom |
| I wake up fresher than these motherfuckers as is |
| Look inside my closet |
| That shit look like it’s Raks Fifth |
| Man, that’s racks on racks on racks on top of packs on top of pounds |
| My chains is pow on pow on pow |
| I’m off them trees, no I ain’t no owl |
| I’m at the altar sayin' my vows, to this Benjamin Franklin pile |
| You buy her a house, I won’t buy her a vowel |
| You fell in love and I fell in her mouth |
| Then called her Dickface, she call the connect |
| You call her collect, I call to collect, no need for a pet |
| If I throw this paper, your bitch gon' fetch |
| Do it, B-i-g |
| And Detroit gonna be aight as long as we got me |
| I’m in the hood if you wonder where I’m at |
| In the back of a Chevy that’s all black |
| Racks on racks, I don’t know how to act |
| Track and field with the birds, I’m running em like track |
| Free throws of money, bet you can’t block |
| King of the club, I bet you can’t top |
| Bitch niggas hate the fact I get guap |
| Or the fact when the money go up, it won’t stop |
| I’m in the club, tryna show ‘em how to stunt |
| Tryna pick up what I’m throwing, it prolly take em bout a month |
| The club underwater, have em running out the front |
| While I’m somewhere in the back, getting blowed like a blunt |
| No need to trip, you can tell em that I’m cool as hell |
| ‘Cause that’s the case I’m known to pack a tool as well |
| I’m a blood motherfucker, nothing new to tell |
| Got Vogues underneath the old-school as well |
| I got lights on my wrist that’ll flash like cop |
| Couple of foreign cars that I ride, no top |
| Couple of wet whips that I ride like yachts |
| A couple of haters looking, I’m knowing them niggas hot |
| And tell ‘em that I don’t give a damn |
| Hard as a motherfucker, tell em I was HAM |
| Call it what you want, I’ma do it for the fam |
| Yeah, that’s the type of nigga that I am |
| Okay, I’m back off into this bitch |
| With a cup, and it’s full of that liq |
| Got racks, ain’t talking tits |
| Big stacks, no Lego bricks |
| Hit a trick and fiending nigga got it |
| I keep that hottie, just look at her body |
| Blew twenty bands in that King of Diamonds |
| Sorry, that’s just part of my hobby |
| And I hear em feeling my Florida swagger |
| So dope, shit, I sold y’all copies |
| That ice be onto my neck and wrist |
| Mow anybody wanna play some hockey |
| I’m that nigga in fact, paper tall as Shaq |
| Blood, Sweat, and Tears, it’ll be on your local Walmart rack, soon |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Getting brain when I’m talking on the phone |
| Spending money when you’re runnin' this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Got lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1000 dollars worth of strong |
| Well, the club 'bout to hear this song |
| We got racks on racks on racks |
| Got racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Racks on racks on racks |
| Ain’t even tryna hold back |
| Got campaign going so strong |
| Gettin' brain when I’m talkin' on the phone |
| Spendin' money when youre' runnin this long |
| Real street nigga, ain’t no clone |
| We at the top where we belong |
| Straight lean, rosé, Patron |
| Smokin' on 1,000 dollars of strong |
| We"re in the club 'bout to hear this song |