Lyrics:
a tool box, bitch, it's Hammer-time
So excuse me as I nail 'em 'til some fell and
Just repel 'em, I'ma kill 'em
Someone tell 'em I'ma kill 'em
I'm gon'
what’s detective number tell them ian do
You niggaz kids ion play wit mine so I won’t play wit you
Want smoke don’t go to the net cause that ain’t what
friends for my n****s
At a hotel on the beach on the ocean by the fishes
I wish mad tings, for my boys, harassing
These bitches for the didgits
I aint never
like porn to me (facts)
We get money right now, we ain't gotta post no throwbacks (uh-uh)
Location, tell 'em post that, watch how quick we come get
must be mad, or mentally minded
You have been blinded, don't get excited
By this fighting, battling, ruling
Better yourself, boy just go to school
over with (that's it)
But don't get mad at me
Go blame the chick who wrote this shit
Yeah, life is sure a bitch (bitch)
But she know I'm rich (I'm
red dress on
Get a head step on, speed on 'for you get peed on
When I piss, I don't miss, shit
Get mad, scratch your ass, and get glad
'For I, scratch
a damn bout who come wit her
Oooooou so I can show em how Im living
Tell that boy come welcome to da trenches
Come here baby girl welcome to da trenches
don't)
Tables turn but I'm okay with that
(Fuck 'em)
First you'll break up 'til you move on
(Fuck 'em)
I'd rather eat and get money alone (Damn)
I'm
clean don’t need no tint
Everybody watching tell em get like this
Everybody bark Everybody talk
See em in the streets they don't walk that walk
Feed
You like to get nasty, huh? Let's go
Huh? What we tell 'em?
Grrah, oh, she thinkin' she nasty
Shakin' her hips to a fast beat
Shit can get real
that I had to go make a decision
Pulling these plays boy I’m feeling like Brady
Balling like Bronny you pussies don’t faze me
I keep me a shootah he
the lotto I want my money now
So I can spend it by tomorrow
Get it, spend it, get it yeah that’s the motto
If you aren’t out here doing, boy you don’t want it
that fist I got them hands
Yo bitch yea she trans boy you tell her get her mans
Don't give a fuck boy I'm coming up like I'm sand
You whining you
Whoa don't fuck with that boy he a A hole
He counting up pesos while they getting Karo'd
I was out hittin' them licks tryna' get me some drop just
a check up on ya bae
Yeah them b**ches mad
They know what's up with me
You don't have to tell me your pressure
Boo I can peep it
Ain't no sneaking
up on ya bae
Yeah them b**ches mad
They know what's up with me
You don't have to tell me your pressure
Boo I can peep it
Ain't no sneaking
Must be tweakin' you better go lay down
If you don't like me just tell me that
And after that I can fall back
I promise you I won't get mad
But don't try
Just don’t get fumbled
Just don’t get fumbled
Ill really hit em w the blick like that
All these niggas done got lit like that
They get lit like that
Tryna tell em we can vibe to a different type of sound they ain't ready yet yeah yeah
Tryna tell em we can vibe to a different type of sound they
in the bed and the girl's a beast
I tell you, homeboy, If you get a piece
She only talks about signin' a lease
I met this tender, her name was Lori
problems you don't want nun of those
I sell a pack then put em in pack it's like a water cycle when it come to smoke
I got the cup, they don't know what we
even though you still hated
I know you think 'cause this fame I'm probably jaded
Ain't get a chance to see yo daughter, tell her happy belated
For me, I
me, they don't want your dreams, they want reality
They get up inside yo' head
You tell 'em "I'm dead" and tell 'em "Get out of me"
Will they try to rob
Discuss these dont get mad by soulja boy tell em Lyrics with the community:
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In