| Come on
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| Gudda Tay on every beat, nigga, Gudda
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| Cook that shit up, Quay
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| D. Hill
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| Feel like I’m walking through hell
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| My brother got hit up with shells
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| We runnin' through bags, the narcs on our ass
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| But fuck it, nobody gon' tell
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| Some niggas switched up, oh well
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| All my niggas bossed up, we player
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| We going up, need to get this on film
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| Got my weight up, I didn’t go to no gym
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| The chopper stay tucked, it’s gon' knock off some limbs
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| I want all the smoke, yeah the shit you inhale
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| Yeah I could’ve failed but a nigga prevailed
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| Got some racks on me now and this shit it got layers
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| I smoke out the pound, you gon' weigh on the scale
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| My packs airborne, they come through the mail
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| My son is four, he rich as the mayor
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| My brother locked up and he trap out his cell
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| Your girl is a whore, the gang gon' slay her
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| Beat down, drill, we’ll shoot a hundred shots
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| Pop this chopper, got 'em ducking like a fire drill
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| I’m on lean, weed, pills, neck got the fucking chills
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| Yeah this beat come from Gudda Tay, Quay, and D. Hill
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| Before I was rapping, yeah a young nigga was trapping
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| Post in the cut and I get out the package
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| Her ass and titties is clapping but the shit plastic
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| Boy I’m so sick of the capping
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| Godzilla, got hitters, been platinum
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| I want some lamb but fuck it I can’t go to platinum
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| They heard that I signed me a deal, they said I’m worth millions
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| Why the fuck I be on Candler?
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| Feel like I’m walking through hell
|
| My brother got hit up with shells
|
| We runnin' through bags, the narcs on our ass
|
| But fuck it, nobody gon' tell
|
| Some niggas switched up, oh well
|
| All my niggas bossed up, we player
|
| We going up, need to get this on film
|
| Got my weight up, I didn’t go to no gym
|
| The chopper stay tucked, it’s gon' knock off some limbs
|
| I want all the smoke, yeah the shit you inhale
|
| Yeah I could’ve failed but a nigga prevailed
|
| Got some racks on me now and this shit it got layers
|
| I smoke out the pound, you gon' weigh on the scale
|
| My packs airborne, they come through the mail
|
| My son is four, he rich as the mayor
|
| My brother locked up and he trap out his cell
|
| My brother caught life so he couldn’t pay the bail
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| My son ain’t but four, he rich and he player
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| He watch me record, he watch all my film
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| He told me take the 1'5 to the gym
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| So I keep dropping hits, I keep giving hell
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| The fans goin' up, they jumping the rail
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| Stay with a shrimp, might pull up and kill
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| When I need me a temp I pull up with shells
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| They say I’m dabbing, I’m fresh as hell
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| I’m rocking Givenchy, my bitch do it well
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| Balenci, Christian, Gucci, Chanel
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| Wraith, Bentley camera, riding down Mill
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| Sliding four fifty-eight like a bat out of hell
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| Go high speed chase, got 12 on my tail
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| We got packs and they sell
|
| We got bricks and they frail
|
| Feel like I’m walking through hell
|
| My brother got hit up with shells
|
| We runnin' through bags, the narcs on our ass
|
| But fuck it, nobody gon' tell
|
| Some niggas switched up, oh well
|
| All my niggas bossed up, we player
|
| We going up, need to get this on film
|
| Got my weight up, I didn’t go to no gym
|
| The chopper stay tucked, it’s gon' knock off some limbs
|
| I want all the smoke, yeah the shit you inhale
|
| Yeah I could’ve failed but a nigga prevailed
|
| Got some racks on me now and this shit it got layers
|
| I smoke out the pound, you gon' weigh on the scale
|
| My packs airborne, they come through the mail
|
| My son is four, he rich as the mayor
|
| My brother locked up and he trap out his cell |