Lyrics Steady Ballin (with H.A.W.K.) - Z-Ro

Steady Ballin (with H.A.W.K.)

It’s going down, straight up
I’m steady balling, shot calling
I’m clowning em baby
Steady balling, tonight
We gon ride, while we sipping and smoking
Steady balling, outta control
We gon swang, with the trunk open glowing
Nothing but things I’m seeing, nigga be chasing divid-ends
Pimping the pen, and I gotta keep a thermostat on my skin
And catch a cold, with the motherfucking ice I’m in
Big bubble lenses, at the front of the car
We in the club, running up a fat run at the bar
Puffing plex, anybody get a punch to the jaw
No soda water, got a pint doing it raw
And everyday, I put new shoes on my feet
Sugar brown ladies, or red bones on my meat
I’ma skip with the rub or not, on my sheets
And ride with a big fo'-five, on my seat
Pulling out the yard, as I drop the top
Ready for the jackers, still gon cock the Glock
Pulling up at the club, everybody still show love
But I’m still not, gonna stop for bops
But I’ma stop for the drank, man po' me up
Hoping to nine seven point nine, blow me up
But these fellas be in it, for the competition
Seem like, everybody wanna show me up
But nigga fuck the fame, cause I want the change
Like Lil' James, leaving stains on niggas brain
I smoke and I lean, but still I maintain balling mayn
When the top down I’ma drop the rest, on 8−3's and bumper kit
Candy paint looking wet as spit, piece on my neck read Screwed Up Click
Album silver bubble head lights, trunk gon knock like lights of fire
At the intersection I run the red lights, all my jewelry is draped in ice
Crazy chain piece and medallion, passenger seat a yellow stallion
Pretty brown eyes and thick thighs, half Chinese mixed with Italian
Paid for everything cash, my rear view is in my dash
Got a pop spot to hide my stash, hide my trunk see the baby gash
My L-Dog a souveiner, drop my top feel the atmosphere
Tweeter singing loud and clear, in my cup is Belvedere
Pockets full of big face bills, three story pad in Beverly Hills
So much ice you get the chills, in the studio I shred the reals
Man no more struggling we bubbling, collecting with Breadwood
White golf against the click, we drop bullets and I’m ahead them
We ride on top of the ridge, them like a wide stallion
Bezeltine around me neck, with the diamond medallion
Barley moving on swangas, and knocking off the side molding
Gotta give it up to the Fat Pat, nigga cause we Southside holding
Rolling in luxury cars, sipping on bar talking on cellulars
Receiving messages from Mars, nothing but rap stars
Anybody wanna fuck with us, fuck around and get flipped up and zipped up
In a six foot ziploc, cause I got a Glock in my right hand
And I’ma flip, when a cat even act like he wanna trip
I said it like that and I’ll say it again, matter fact push record and play it
again
With a bop digger then, Trae and Den in a Benz
And accepting all the dope trafficing
Got the dope in the trunk, and we backing in
So much money, gotta back track my ends
I got the glut opium, black cause I’m African
American, Guerilla Maab gon shine for life
But our motherfuckers, are dull like a butter knife
I put it on my balls and on my life, Z-Ro never been shife
Cat don’t come around me, just let me ball
If I fall off my note, then let me fall
Needed help from God, did he get my call
Pulling out the lot, and he let me crawl
Like Mafio, by the year two triple O
I’ma come down, in a six double O
With green flow, mats on the flo'
Candy paint on my do', it’s bout for the hook and it go