Lyrics:
gathering
Yo rattling niggas who walk badlimp
Beat you in the same place till the blues start blacking
C-e-o niggas stay genaral managing
Flipmode throwing
fuckin' way
But here I am, workin' in the studio
And your album ain't out because you're movin' slow
By the time you make one I'll be on ten
Hit the studio
ones you don't know about
Buns by the tons, mad guns and we going out
What!!
[Swizz beatz]
It ain't over, it ain't over, ain't over
[Sonja
the streets like I ran up the prison
It’s fuck the c.o , police , feds the whole system
It’s live mula king of the coast and I’m Wiggin
Shorty in love
do I owe you it's alright
From my floor up to the ceiling shit I'm shooting higher heights
I been feeling extra moody cuz I rap this shit at night I
Family alcoholics still sippin' his booze
That's why I'm rappin over rhythm n' blues
To all you rich black folks wit ya glistenin' jewels
Entrepreneurs,
see blood, I'm like a Great White
Catch you slippin' on a late
Night and it's no bark, straight bite
Watch you bleed out as reality
Starts to sink in
Rewind the clip
Yeah, I'll start by taking back
It's Spring of '17
Sitting shotgun there in my car
You said celebrities are sad, no matter how big or small
in yo faces on a daily basis
I done wrecked T-town and club Oasis
I got three Jags in my parking spaces
'95 Air Max with blue laces
you can call me
They see these foreign cars
In the VIP section with a lot o porn stars
Touch down in LA and bitch gotta pay
These bottles cost a thousand broke
Bitch you
Jay
Fuck that
This is it right here, baby
You know what it is
Yo, I used to have bad luck
Now you might see me in a Jag truck
Mad stuck,
the truth (take the)
Get through
Right yours, wait if you just keep it true
Don't fight the blues, don't fight the blues
Brotha man, young man
Let me
magazines
Stomp your DVDs to smithereens
You buy more I'll just X them too
Or I'll be forced to make an ex out o' you
And by that I mean exactly what you
We gon drop this shit
Right on the Tok
12 o'clock like right on the
Right on the dot
Saying it's fire it's hot
After a week the whole album gon pop
Jay
Fuck that
This is it right here, baby
You know what it is
Yo, I used to have bad luck
Now you might see me in a Jag truck
Mad stuck,
represent the L-B-C-ment
Windows tint, fool, I'm the president
I hit you with a tune every blue moon (uh-huh)
So collard on your plate so you can stuff it
show
Because my tongue is actually fast but then again it's slow
See yo (Throw it bro) you say cheeka-boo
A name pertained for niggas who WHO
Who
as f*** like a gross smoothie
N***** swear we cool cuz his bro knew me
I don't play like an old movie
I'm so moody
I'm feelin blue and the flow Tookie
You
nobody gon' buy you like
That P-Miller clothing line
Or an album from No Limit
This is no gimmick
When I spit it's so prolific
I ain't worried about these
Roses are red, violets are blue
Your ass looks phat and I wanna feel it too
Pardon me miss, don't mean to get you confused
But Could it be that
hats
And I don't like Proof, punk-ass, he think he tough
He keep thirty niggaz with him, cause he weak as fuck!
I ever catch you by yourself, I'ma fuck
straight
Burnouts in a closed space
Still blow the O's, but it's no vape
Homie album like a mixtape
Now he follow orders that I dictate
Chances are you gon'
You never hear that we buckle
Beef? we chuckle
Scuffle over a game of pinochle
Anything up on my money, man, I gotta see double
Unless you want
H•A•M and abuse the rhythm
Beast mode but you can see the beauty in it
Who are you when the moon's the limit?
Armstrong melvin to you baby boys
Your
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