Lyrics:
slapped by his sister
And that's probably gon' kill they mama
So I'm sorry Ms. Jackson, I'm sorry Ms. Houston, sissy
Might shed a tear but ain't no sissy
when the dope game got dangerous
In my interviews talking plug talk
On my last album I explained it (I explained it)
With a fork telling you let
that thang
And by thang
I mean my dangalang
You don't even wanna see what it can do, yuh, yuh, yuh
Yuh, yuh
They call me Kanye West
Pectus Gang,
mama, she gots the tongue you see?
Whitney Houston, that's my mentor all the way
Umm, Aretha Franklin much respect to her
Stevie Wonder, umm, who else?
Fly out to Houston I need line ain't talking fucking Whitney
(Ain't Whitney Houston)
You think I'm fine on the outside, but inside I ain't living (I'm
I spent me a 50
You can't keep up with me
I might do a show out in Houston like Whitney
All my boys with me
If shit's getting gritty
I'm not like
take it with me
Bad bitch with tig ol' bitties down in Houston, she my Whitney
Geeked together, geeked forever, have my kids or have kidneys
They clever,
one
It's getting late to convince me
You've been hurting all alone, you miss me
Houston, we got a problem with Whitney
Too turnt, can't move, come get
wanna, I don't wanna (yeah)
Compare me to my whip, 'cause if you push, I start
No Whitney Houston here, don't need no bodyguard
That poker face don't
and shut your motherfuckin' mouths
Robert Downey, Bobby Brownie, Whitney Houston the shit she's using
Jesse Jackson, reverend scandal, got George
it's nifty
Haters fuckin' snarl but none bit me
If n when they come and try to get me
I'll be in Houston with Whitney
Wait...bro....who's Whitney?
Who -
Vogue
Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige, the Queens IMO
cl B Sure, Immature or IMX with the New Jack
Keith Sweat, Boyz 2 Men, Color Me Badd on those smooth
Houston on that Whitney Houston, bish I'm Bobby Brown
And I ain't really with the low blows Shawty I just wanna kick it while you down
Shawty fuck with me!
drown all these haters, rest in peace to Whitney Houston
Cars, money, girls and the clothes
Aw man, you sold your soul
Naw man, mad people was frontin'
Aw
nuts I bust 'em one by one
So what's the 4-1-1 hun?
Dreams of fucking an R&B bitch
I'm just playing, but I'm saying
Dreams of fucking an R&B bitch
count cash for a livin` (beotch, BEOTCH!)
[Chorus]
Now, there was a cool little old fuck
Smoked a little broccelius then we stopped by the burrito
na co dzień absolutnie nie słucha
Muzyki utrzymanej w takiej stylistyce
Jest fanem soulu
Ceni twórczość Whitney Houston
Michaela Jacksona, prince’a czy
Whitney Houston (huh)
He got caught without it, now they robbin' him for his rubies (woah)
He wouldn't give it up so he got buried in his Cuban (it's
stuck like I made a thousand rappers put shackles on they feet wit me,
And then I broke free, I'll let 'em loose when Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston
drown all these haters, rest in peace to Whitney Houston
Cars, money, girls and the clothes
Aw man, you sold your soul
Naw man, mad people was frontin'
Aw
The ones that stood by me like soldiers
You were there
I know you love me
But I'm still waiting for the Lord to come hug me
Send a sign or somethin'
watch it go in smoke, smoke, smoke
Uh, chin to the clouds, all ten on solid ground
Sipping purple Whitney Houston, never touch the Bobby Brown
When
to the A to the N to the E
Yo P don't tell me it was Jane you were douchin'
With the Anita Baker haircut
Nah more like Whitney Houston
While the record's still
the green lik kyrie
I'm top 2 nigga you top 3
Is u pussy or u cocky
You bout to Whitney Houston blow like Bobby
I'll put seven holes in a nigga like a audi
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