(Reuel, stop playing with these niggas)
Sold a hundred 'bows of 'Za at the freeway (skrrt)
And double back with a lil' E-way, this a replay
Nothin' but muffins, ice, and gas like the Speedway
Told my ho to come outside, let's have a three-way (Iced Out Records)
Trappin' like it's 2010 on the block with ninety 'scripts
Type of nigga that buss a wrist, dog, I barely like the bitch
They act out as Christmas trees, Santa Claus, we lightin' shit
Diamond kiss and icy wrist, bitch, I got all type of shit
Stomach hurtin', ain't drunk lean like three weeks, I need a fix
From the 6, I got paper like the Lions, we really rich
Caught him lackin' at the game, was off a Xan' when he got blitzed
Hundred thousand on me in fives, a half a million when it's all Crip
Drive the Cullinan like a Striker, drive my Wraith like it's a 'Vette
Niggas fake, ain't never step, hit your face for a lil' check
I get top when I be sleepin', tryna take me a lil' rest
That bitch clutchin' in my hand, ain't got no safety or no belt
I don't even care 'bout none of this shit, when I get high, I just like to pop it
Niggas bags got low, it's dry, nothin' but water, oh, I can mop it
I don't even talk unless it's money, that's why it's dog shit, every topic
I keep dog shit in every pocket and every car come with a rocket
You niggas still broke, just like back then
Ain't gotta sell dope, the rap check big
Take 'em to '09, we was gettin' Act' back then
It was gettin' tax back when we had the FAPA stack ten
Half the shit they got don't even sell, them niggas pack rigged
Before we had the 'Za sent by the bale, I had to trap mids
Thirty rounds in MAC-10s, red Forgis, black Benzes
Stuff her 'til she packed in, her muffins made of half-men
Icewear Vezzo - Free Ghost Lyrics
Icewear Vezzo - Free Ghost Lyrics
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English
(Reuel, stop playing with these niggas)
Sold a hundred 'bows of 'Za at the freeway (skrrt)
And double back with a lil' E-way, this a replay
Nothin' but muffins, ice, and gas like the Speedway
Told my ho to come outside, let's have a three-way (Iced Out Records)
Trappin' like it's 2010 on the block with ninety 'scripts
Type of nigga that buss a wrist, dog, I barely like the bitch
They act out as Christmas trees, Santa Claus, we lightin' shit
Diamond kiss and icy wrist, bitch, I got all type of shit
Stomach hurtin', ain't drunk lean like three weeks, I need a fix
From the 6, I got paper like the Lions, we really rich
Caught him lackin' at the game, was off a Xan' when he got blitzed
Hundred thousand on me in fives, a half a million when it's all Crip
Drive the Cullinan like a Striker, drive my Wraith like it's a 'Vette
Niggas fake, ain't never step, hit your face for a lil' check
I get top when I be sleepin', tryna take me a lil' rest
That bitch clutchin' in my hand, ain't got no safety or no belt
I don't even care 'bout none of this shit, when I get high, I just like to pop it
Niggas bags got low, it's dry, nothin' but water, oh, I can mop it
I don't even talk unless it's money, that's why it's dog shit, every topic
I keep dog shit in every pocket and every car come with a rocket
You niggas still broke, just like back then
Ain't gotta sell dope, the rap check big
Take 'em to '09, we was gettin' Act' back then
It was gettin' tax back when we had the FAPA stack ten
Half the shit they got don't even sell, them niggas pack rigged
Before we had the 'Za sent by the bale, I had to trap mids
Thirty rounds in MAC-10s, red Forgis, black Benzes
Stuff her 'til she packed in, her muffins made of half-men
Sold a hundred 'bows of 'Za at the freeway (skrrt)
And double back with a lil' E-way, this a replay
Nothin' but muffins, ice, and gas like the Speedway
Told my ho to come outside, let's have a three-way (Iced Out Records)
Trappin' like it's 2010 on the block with ninety 'scripts
Type of nigga that buss a wrist, dog, I barely like the bitch
They act out as Christmas trees, Santa Claus, we lightin' shit
Diamond kiss and icy wrist, bitch, I got all type of shit
Stomach hurtin', ain't drunk lean like three weeks, I need a fix
From the 6, I got paper like the Lions, we really rich
Caught him lackin' at the game, was off a Xan' when he got blitzed
Hundred thousand on me in fives, a half a million when it's all Crip
Drive the Cullinan like a Striker, drive my Wraith like it's a 'Vette
Niggas fake, ain't never step, hit your face for a lil' check
I get top when I be sleepin', tryna take me a lil' rest
That bitch clutchin' in my hand, ain't got no safety or no belt
I don't even care 'bout none of this shit, when I get high, I just like to pop it
Niggas bags got low, it's dry, nothin' but water, oh, I can mop it
I don't even talk unless it's money, that's why it's dog shit, every topic
I keep dog shit in every pocket and every car come with a rocket
You niggas still broke, just like back then
Ain't gotta sell dope, the rap check big
Take 'em to '09, we was gettin' Act' back then
It was gettin' tax back when we had the FAPA stack ten
Half the shit they got don't even sell, them niggas pack rigged
Before we had the 'Za sent by the bale, I had to trap mids
Thirty rounds in MAC-10s, red Forgis, black Benzes
Stuff her 'til she packed in, her muffins made of half-men
Writer: Chivez Smith
Copyright: Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Copyright: Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC