Lyrics:
Aiiyo Bimmy
So rock the bells, Def Jam collabo' man
You know'say, Bim, my, yeah
Feel It's baby, (uh) ha (uh) ha (uh) ha (uh) ha ha
I'm
and get off my tip
I'm just tryna get rich of these tracks I get
And you tryna get rich off the scratch I get
And you chicks think it's all
About bread, but
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
on ya back
[Hook x2]
Yo, what it look like
You got crack what it cook like
You gotta track, what's the hook like
F is off the hook, right
We stole
off the backboard
Fuck a Grammy, that is not what I come back for
I came for hip-hop, niggas forgot to lock the back door
Live by the code, die by
Verse One: Sadat X
This is the stick up boom music for styles to flow free
But y'all know it's me or could you tell by the spree
like I touched God
Drive like Stewart, and I sing like Rod
Buy a couple pods, two-for-thirty, that's hot
Then call up Nicki, we gon' have a menage
I
feelin’ like jam slam
Bitch, I’m for words, get banned, stand-
Up on your bone
Two fucks if I don’t know you
Here we are I gotta, hot chrome the throne
We
to fireballs, um
I started spilling all my problems
To the final boss
He shed a tear and let me by him like
"What's mine is yours"
Broke him off a little weed bid
Hot hot
Hot hot
Hot hot
Hot hot
Hot boy, hot boy, take a nigga face off
Hot boy, hot boy, who else wanna face off
Hot boy, hot boy, twelve get shot
Your little plan was a flop
Tryin' to get em on by sellin' out the Kid Rock
A part of me was with you but yo he died,
And I'm glad you stepped off
of Al Capone
Gun POW to the dome
And split the bone, wig blown off the ledge
By the alledged, full-fledged, sledge RZA edge
One dose of my feroc(ious)
Now who done passed you a diaper and got you thinkin' you the shit?
The styles I be inkin' get you hyper when I get and attack tracks
Bruise
hands
But my mind was strong, I grew where you hold your blacks up
Trap us, expect us not to pick gats up
Where you drop your cracks off by the Mack
the man
That baby jumped right on me
That love rubbed off on me hey, hey
I'm a hot-rod fiend for fancy cars
Drive-in movies and her caviar
Big sport coats
shorty and I make it hot-ter
I got a lock ya, flavour to bring
Got the championships so I'ma savour the ring
Church boy, raised by my grandmomma
our -
I'm about to break ya off
H-town growin' hard
Lead with hips, slap my thighs
Swing my hair, square my eyes
Lookin' hot, smellin' good
[Mad Skillz]
Now who done passed you a diaper and got you thinkin you the shit?
The styles I be inkin get you hyper when I get and attack tracks
butter to the jam, so jam
Start in the PM, and end in the AM
I spit Stride flows, getting hit by the ram
I patrol control, so a fucking controller
trauma, slash comma, no one to bomba
E-tracks like ?, from Def Jam
The East West check my streetbreath, no weak steps
Or rest with the ?, check my
the stacks
Before I open my mouth, I get all the facts
I could never fall off, it's too many hot tracks
I'm affiliated with too many hot cats
To end up,
my time
I'm racing time I think I'm last
And if Tune mentions lean again
Then I might drink his stash
The underdogs understand what I lay over tracks
and chopped celery
See, I made it, my flavor situated
From the nickel plated mic that's hot, to leave your brain inflated
Plus, I'm thick like Quakers
Ghetto summer jam's got the streets blocked off
Plots to knock me off get stopped short
Armed with my thoughts, move the world with an unknown force
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