Lyrics:
it's Phat Ninja on the track (yep)
Find out where ya sleeping and I shoot you in ya cap (brah)
Got the chrome like Google boy I'll take ya off the map
that will make you funk
Intimidated by his 14 year old
At 97 he's a different kind of funk
We push together like a perfect hand and tongue
You
Stay open like 7/11 that's 24/7, when you need some hot shit
Stop by and get you a beverage, I'm servin'
My rhymes like nickels and dimes
Plug it
Stay open like 7/11 that's 24/7, when you need some hot shit
Stop by and get you a beverage, I'm servin'
My rhymes like nickels and dimes
Plug it
Oh, yeah
He lost his sauce, ain't never getting it back
I'm speed racing, I'm swerving off that track
I'm sipping Quagen but I miss the Act
I love
drawers on and, buttoned down clothes
Don't brown nose just join it
Ecstasy pills, with Buddha Man signs stamped on it
Jam on it, the +Blair Witch+
blazing the pot
I fool on the track, I bang that shit out
I turned up my drip, I made that shit hot
Keep cooking that dope until 12 raid the spot
Now they
New Jordan 3s, got a spring in my step
Do my devotion and drop in a X
Hit thе Off-ramp and go right to the bag
This shit is pendulum motion, it swings
I
afraid at our snarls
Thank God we didn't get beat by the Red Hot Karls
I care about culture of my squad
But after praccy I'm a really need to stretch my
Rico)
I dare a Drilly pop up in the spot, like (bitch)
Oh, I make it hot
We spin with them Llama sticks, red dots
He got shot in his head, he ducked
like the boy
Ill take em to the black door give em the dick
she screaming that she been her before
Its like the five o'clock traffic jam we in the mix
to the store for some more baking soda
Yo, yo, yo, get your fuckin', yo this made of glass, man
Get your big Avias off my mom's table man
The fuck is wrong
to the store for some more baking soda
Yo, yo, yo, get your fuckin', yo this made of glass, man
Get your big Avias off my mom's table man
The fuck is wrong
by the creek while we smoking by da creek
Niggas die for they chain cause flossing ain’t cheap
I see gold on your body, ill lay a nigga down in his
boy, I'm too hot nigga
All these little bitty bitches gon' bop nigga
Had to hide these rocks in my jock nigga
If he playin' I'ma shoot him off top
And the track's so loud that I
Push 'em in a pound bag
Chillin's hell backstage with the chick fans
Skrub's surfing the crowd like it's his jam
Mackinos wildin'
blow smoke in your face, burn rubber off of rim tires
Yes I ah, Jay I ah
Double G-A, livewire nigga, holla back!
All I need
Rocawear (check)
Nike
blow smoke in your face, burn rubber off of rim tires
Yes I ah, Jay I ah
Double G-A, livewire nigga, holla back!
All I need
Rocawear (check)
Nike
in that can oh
C - Murder we gone do this shit again woah
In the bottom on the block where i cop my first rod at
This for cross the track where my
stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels
Rumbling through
are torn
She stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels
crazy, he be hot like fever (yeah)
Please don't lose yourself, you ain't never gon' please me
(Glock in my draws as I walk the motherfuckin' track
ya own team they like damn he hot
Bars lay em down dope shit pitch bags on blocks
Spray mine see why aim in a straight line
Knocking off everything
'Jams on it'
I'm not a role model, I cracks the Beck's bottle
Smoke blunts, play pretty MC's as sex models
So inhale, exhale, what you smell?
Derail
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