Lyrics:
Okay, New York, New York
Skepta, Jme (Boy Better Know)
This is grime scene
Hold tight my mum still, big up mum
Yeah, listen
I want a 100% not fifty
I don't need to pop no jigs I roll it up and blow
Fuck a dirty nose the only white I smoke is widow dog
I might mix it with bubble gum
I like a lil
Louis
Mix match
I hop on the stand
The shortys like wow
They say YoungLegend boy
You Next
I used to ride the bus everyday
Now I pull up in a I8
Now I’m
feeling good bitch don't kill my vibe
I had entered the darkness not for the rookies stay yo ass inside
Some of my niggas mix wit Fanta jolly ranchers in
giving up this throne
'Cause the homie from Ambaum already got his own
And the region still waiting to blow, even though
We been seeing explosions for
Yeah Yeah Cassidy and I ain't
In no mutha fucking gang but I'm a mutha
Fucking gangster real rap
I'mma G boy get smoke by P boy
Coke by the key boy
on a brand new six,
La la la la la la la la la la
I just taught my young boys how to mix,
La la la la la la la la la la
Ye ain't seen paper like this nigga.
high, sex on a plane
Hey newscaster, we about to rain
Loving the club because we fill the section with pain, c'mon
Blow him up, finna explode
All
you up in the mix
Take it off your bucket list
I'm here to blow some chips
Come with me and blow some chips
I know the house always wins I'm here
Yea i up next, hear i up next
In these streets best you stick and move
I's a shooter by the oath
Two bad bitches I can't pick and choose like fuck
up to something
Selling cracks sack by sack so they could function?
Well, yes and no
Yes we were selling it
But no, it wasn't blow
Cook it in
on the south side
Faces in the crowd
I sorta rather be alone
Voices on my phone
I kinda wanna zone out
Tangled in the mind twist
Hype off a new mix
Lightin' up
up, laughing after it's blowing up
Think I'm playing by my pistol, until I'm smacking it over ya
Shooting spiders off my rims, like I got
the Bass walk this way
Respect to Tina Marie, Debbie Deb, Ice T
Dougie Fresh, Lady B, Run DMC, Curtis Blow, Blondie
Sugar Hill, Kid Capri, Grand Master
I don't drive slow, I don't drive slow,
Drop the top on that thang just to let ya hair blow,
Let ya hair blow, Let ya hair blow,
I drive real
little situation, situation (situation)
She my little situation, situation
She like to get lit, pour up a mix (mix)
Ice up her wrist
Play with her,
, stick him up, stick him up
We drop the dope in the pot and we mix it up
Run up on a nigga, I make him give it up
He had a bodyguard
That nigga wasn’t big
motherfuckin' pussy (come here, daddy)
(Who she talkin' to?) (Ooh, you look so good)
Flossy B, slap this bitch
(Wait, wait, bitch, back up)
She was just
I'm accepted
By mainstream America and good in the piece
Now niggas wanna talk all greasy (why)
Like they ain't used to open up for
Me in New York on tv
the boys flip the candy painted low
The city where they blow big killa and stayed blowed
Hustling ass D-boys got the game sewed
Where they sip that paint
don't get it mixed up.
Tell them boys to keep running that shit out they mouth,
I'm the guard of my city, can't knock me down like
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,
up to something
Selling cracks sack by sack so they could function?
Well, yes and no
Yes we were selling it
But no, it wasn't blow
Cook it in
I feel like that you challenging
My image written like a bomb
My star will blow up like Saddam
And my hoes go in every piece of high regarded clothes
Stunna, young Wayne, I'm Young Money
I'm growned up like I'm new here but I'm nuclear
That's a bomb threat mothafucker, watch how blow up
I'm good, I'm
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