Lyrics:
I'll hit the ceiling
Or else I'll tear up this town
So now I gotta cut loose
Footloose, kick off the Sunday shoes
Please, Louise, pull me off of my
Raised out the gutter I was in trap
Flipping up them packs
Running up them rack
Yea Lost it all I ain't going back
Then I let it stack
Tell hit my
and morty
I be sipping jack or sipping 40s
What you have to say is not important
Can't stay till the morning cause she boring
These niggas fucking up my
Run up on me worda gang you get clapped
He was talking on live and got shot in his back
Don't try to compete wit me why would you try
When i caught
you heard(aye, let's get it man)
Aye
Hit my jack
Where he at
You could find that nigga in trap counting up stacks
Check his watch, higher up my stock
forget the jack
Mud tires pearl snaps
Old Justin boots
And a dirty ball cap
We like it loud we like it fun
With the girl riding shotgun
Load Em Up Load Em
going up they do not have a chance
Now I been going up I
Been tryna get these bands, ya
Jack Rutstein:
I feel like the man when
I'm running up these
the road, Jack, Jack"
Don't call me mister (oh)
Girl, I've broken up with ya
Love me now, my name is bigger
Girl, I'm giving you the finger
'Cause
he answers
Sandy Claws will be no more
You're so stupid, think now
If we blow him up to smithereens
We may lose some pieces
And then Jack will
he answers
Sandy Claws will be no more
You're so stupid, think now
If we blow him up to smithereens
We may lose some pieces
And then Jack will
he answers
Sandy Claws will be no more
You're so stupid, think now
If we blow him up to smithereens
We may lose some pieces
And then Jack will
in your brain
Nigga at close range
Run up with your Roley your
Rings and your motherfuckin chain
Haters, you funny mayne
I'm 'bout my money mayne
Bitch
like a parade
See I come from Detroit and it's all about Dylan
When I Black Jack five dollas stacked to the ceiling
In my V12 'Boomin' Words'
your ass, the real deal
Had to send your ass, the real deal
I had to line 'em up, line 'em up
You niggas quack me up
Daffy, Donald Duck
Stunt,
jealousy
[Baatin]
Spread the word, that nigga's hardcore
Envious Emcee, lyrics are *Cagore*
Rhythm up, cause I'm the real Jack Ripper (Uh-huh)
I call
on my left, Jack on my right
Blowin' that smoke on a Friday night
Waylon turned up on the JBL
Girl, you probably think I'm going through hell
But I
Ran up a check and I didn't look back
Don't want your bitch, that hoe was wack
What is you doing? Run up a sack
She want to argue, I won't react
That’s my job, tell em stop
Keep your demons in the loop, tell em call me if they want
Yeah you’re gone, off that Jack and that John
No it’s not for
up)
What up, cat? It's my stick shift
You automat'
ATM plans and a cell phone jack
When y'all jokers snap, my mic got LoJack
'Cause I've been getting
strollin'
40's I'll be holdin'
Girls in the daisys drive eazy crazy
Rolled up my windows as I turned on my AC
Rollin' down crenshaw see the hoe's joggin'
A little hand clap for some funk faces
And make your body move in the following places
Goes up your back and then down your spine
And when it hits your
places
Goes up your back and then down your spine
And when it hits your head
Okay then back to baseheads
Dance like you just won at the special
to jack a punk
And when that siccness hits I'm like a new stage
Watch my back, hit the dank, load the gat, make the grave
Twelve midnight, my niggas
Run up that bag
Run up that bag
Run up that bag
Run up that bag
Run up that bag
Run up that bag
Run up that bag
Run up that bag
Young nigga run
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