Lyrics:
Ghana skies
Dollar signs
Lotta crime
Posted by the mama's fried
Shotties slide out the trenchcoat
Like its Colombine
Gotta grind
When the feds
Let's go
Running man running man
Let's do a race to 100 bands
50 my whip 50 my wrist
You fuckboys talk to my other hand
Money man money man
Now I got
Hit the light man who ever is the closest (closest)
Chillin with the gang striking million dollar poses (poses)
When we in the rolls it's million
too lit
I drank too much, but I'm still rich
Poor man got no money for a Birken bag
And my earrings cost about a hundred dollars cash
On the grind
squinted and gave her a little wink
i could use a double whiskey
but it would not save my soul
i could use a hundred dollars
but it would not make me whole
Verse 1: Big Gipp
It's a stray man, living in these veins man
Suckin on a piece of sugar pain, chucking chains
Take the wind out thru
We never wash
Ever since I was younger, I was into video games
Tron or whatever, it didn't matter the name
Thousands of my dollars, have been poured into all types
Green tops, boulders and bottles
Soldiers who follow leaders
You owed 'em dollars
Know that tommorrow you might not see it
Packs got knocked off by
Crush by the lite- (Victoriouz)
New shit, man
Tearin' the streets up
It's your boy Lil Durk tunin' in with DJ Victoriouz, man (my nigga Lil Durk)
Word up son, word
Yeah, to all the killers and a hundred dollar billers
(Yo, I got the phone thing, know I'm sayin'? Keep your eyes open)
For
got that off the bows
Chef Boyardee, the way I play with The stove 100 million plus street Nigga goals
By the way that I'm ballin', I'm on my Way
Damn man, I'm the band man
That's VV diamonds and they dance man, they hit like bam bam
Holla at me, what's the plan stan, I'm the xan man
We gon'
Uh uh
SV OwePi, yeah, yeah
If your mans don't slide who is he to you
You look like a charge
I'm a god way I'm rolling through
Headphones cooking
to Heavens fam
VA prices was 100 dollars every gram
Word to the Clipse, triple price, we don't need a book
I'm too busy trapping, I ain't got time to write
Act a fool man you gonna Drown
Blog put a nigga business out
Knock them down now switch them out
I got opps I don't know about
Stand on business we
picture
Could tell by ya frame u ain’t get any bigga
Fancy taste with crackhead money uh
Og’s said get ya god damn money uh
Keep it 100 if u got something
up out the ground like a mole
For a couple hundred dollars, niggas sell they soul
We gone do what we gotta do so we not poor
I don't gotta write shit,
trynna poke his chest up
Foreigns back-to-back, I done dip em all in blood
All this money on this side, fuck the city up
Five hundred dollar blunts, these
You don't like me I don't like you either
Where that bag pay me for the feature
Dickie fit dressed like a cleaner & I got a sweeper
Thousand dollar
work finally catching up with perfect timing
You know what I'm saying
I could take a hundred dollar slab
And goddamn make three hundred off that
Yeahhh
Woah
So many trash bags
Shit filling up the house
Know I'm Headed to top
Climbing up the mountain
Gotta get up for these Nîggas
Man these boys
Sadity thots, know they ain't forever
My trials and tribulations playing out on blogs
Spent three hundred thousand or better that's on all the cars
That
the bae bae kids
Selling gas like an arab, fucked my old bitch tell her stay mad
Got new math got a new bitch, with a big bag and a thick ass
100 bands
a week, catch me burnin' rubber up the street
Rap niggas always smokin' indo
So everytime we puff it's twenty dollars out the window
But what is friends
Discuss these hundred dollar bag by beenie man 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