CORSA
Hit-Boy, Dom Kennedy
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Uh Yeah Won't jump, clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't ridin' like you kids They know what it is, peel off, Lambo tires skid Doin' the most, imagine you and me close I'm too ahead, all of the homies shit dead Niggas can't call me their friends or call me their mans Or call me their woadie, it's forty below My heart is still colder, got it in Corsa, I'm revvin' the motor I'm gettin' change, they won't see me slip through the crack Shawty is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash What you think all this Julio for? She told me, "Go lock up the studio doors" She actin' up like it's the movie awards For real, for real, for real You gotta love a discreet freak That's for real, for real, for real Nigga, it's twenty on my receipt That's for real, for real, for real I just left out H Lorenzo in Max Field Tool on me, we still can't build I be solo on the real, smokin' personal's a kill I kept it 1k, that's how I'ma stay She want a saint, but she not a saint All team down, that's how I was raised for all of my days Won't jump, clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't ridin' like you kids They know what it is, peel off, Lambo tires skid Doin' the most, imagine you and me close I'm too ahead, all of the homies shit dead Niggas can't call me their friends or call me their mans Or call me their woadie, it's forty below My heart is still colder, got it in Corsa, I'm revvin' the motor I'm gettin' change, they won't see me slip through the crack Shawty is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash (yeah) Don't jump, clique to clique, most these guys is counterfeit I'm in the hood without a stick, you never know, might see some shit She love me 'cause I don't cum quick, I'm local but still out the mix This stripper bitch live by the risk, talkin' slick gon' get you hit I'm hood rich but I never trick, she fine but still, I won't commit Spoiled hoes throwin' fists, want a nigga to pay that rent I ain't like these rappers, all these trappers hustlin' backwards All talk facts, bro, all you after is the fame and the pussy That shit wack to us, uh, I put that on my cousin I been thuggin', two tires cost like sixteen hundred My nigga died, I'm drivin' home, I'm sick to my stomach But self-pity won't cut it, I tell 'em, "Up the budget" Now niggas wanna own their masters, y'all actors I'm a factor, roll like tractors, playin' Ginuwine, the Bachelor If I want it, I could have her, and my Amex say I'm platinum At the car wash with a bad one, take a pic with me then tag 'em Niggas can't call me their friends or call me their mans Or call me their woadie, it's forty below My heart is still colder, I got it in sport, I'm revvin' the motor I'm gettin' change, they want me to me slip through the crack Baby is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash Won't jump, clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't ridin' like you kids They know what it is, peel off, Lambo tires skid Doin' the most, imagine you and me close I'm too ahead (I'm too ahead), all of the homies shit dead (yeah)
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Written by: Chauncey A. Hollis, Dominic R. Hunn
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind
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"CORSA Lyrics." Lyrics.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 9 May 2024. <https://www.lyrics.com/lyric-lf/8206479/Hit-Boy/CORSA>.
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