Lyrics:
when I want it
If the bitch ever down for the team, I don't want her
Runoff, with a sack, ain't no bringin' it back
Give me a L, you gon' take that shit
the middle of the shoot out
I survived, not surprising' death couldn't hold me back
Alpha stocks, I keep rising.... yo C. Laney
Catch ya lying, yo C. Laney,
Sellin mixtapes to them albums from 30 to 50 thousand (wow)
It ain't no problem, I got it, my following got me (got me)
Long as I continue to spit poems
this new century’s plague, a full album, kids don’t know what that is. When I was young my dad showed me Clapton and Bowie, what’ll I show my kids
been him, trending topic, I'm in the spot
Every chance I'ma spaz out
Makin' these n*ggas fumble, the bag they cannot keep up with me
B*tch, I'm on a hall
buddy’s but the fake got switched out
Bitches called me bummy it’s funny how shit flipped now
Cuz now they want me to beat the pussy up like I’m Chris brown
How would you describe the album?
Ballache-pop, or synth music with a sense of humour
It's apocalypse-ready, cold wave club music
Bedroom
no Dateline
Chris Hanson, I'm Chris handsome
Trap jumping like a new Samsung
Top down, chrome spinnin', middle finger when I'm rollin' by
Extra zooted
up over my neck
Trynna be lowkey won't tell em what's next
Got like 20 new albums in the back of the desk
Roll it up
Hit it once
Put em all to sleep
calling
Put Phil Anselmo in Times Square as Elmo
Take your pizza party and give me my stolen labor back
Have you read Sutter Caine obituary paperback
You
wait for the back beat
Slap you with Kurt's hand hurts man wow
Thumping like Paul
Light you like Jimi and wait for the fall
Try to get with me not taking
how they snatched black on falls back
I feel that, you like a part of me that I need back
In prison, out of control but driven
>From the island
Hahahahaha, yeah
It's your nigga young Khalifa, man
Chris Breezy
All my ladies put your hands up
Yeah, Taylor Gang
All my ladies put your
The world by the balls, eatin' out my palm
Every album song I was spazzin'
The fuck out on
And now I'm gettin' frowned and clowned on
But the only one who's
[GA]
Comin' from the playground.
Take it straight back to the bricks.
Yo, Chris, tell 'em where it is.
[Chris]
Chillin'; cooler den a squeak;
like bulimic
Pardon, my High Tyme album a problem
A bitch that holler 'bout "fuck me?"
Nah, fuck that bitch
Fuck that bitch
Fuck that bitch
A bitch that
nigga?
By the end of the record I will have ended you niggas
These niggas hate to see him playing off the script that he wrote
They be like "Why he call
ain't got mine
I'mma holla when the primetime
Why you, how you, call me when nobody by you?
Nobody want you, your mind a ocean, your body's a bayou
I
Still trying to recoup from the first album ass holes
You's a gangster, prove it
Wanna shoot me, do it
That's word than Jerry McGuire
I'll set that
never even called me by my name.
You don't have to call me Waylon Jennings.
And you don't have to call me Charlie Pride.
And you don't have to call
a Dub
Caught my first case at twelve years old
So don't make me catch one more
I can move back to my old ways
On top of these pussies like Always
Spying
rappin, you wasn't even tappin
Now that I'm done, you pat me on the back
and say what's happenin, I love the rhymes you announce
Heavy D's in effect with
Play wit me, Play wit me, Play wit me, shoot
Stick on my hip, big Glock
Put her hips on my wrist, tiktok
Know I'm will wit a smith, Chris rock
Gotta
Ha, ha
You know
I never actually thought about becoming a rapper
But you know
Here I am
Chris bruh stop playing, cut that shit down bro
Yeah, yeah
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