Yeah
Ain't nothin' nice
Nah
Mean
Nah'mean?
Nah'mean?
Yeah
No
It's not the same drip, this is water torture
Feel the angles, clips are loaded
Unreeling chambers, unveiling anger as sick as COVID
This ain't your Moët, this Olde English
Nigga, the gang's back, you get your brain cracked
Like it was blown speakers
You know the eyes crazy, I seal it like the jobs Navy
You get a sense of that, fresh shit all on your side lately
Dogging in homes to the point like the top of the gnomes
Lodging the bones, I couldn't see any other option as "No"
Watch your foot, you better step nice or you get sliced
I take the can and spray the letter after F twice
The whole left side of my body is digital
I'm an android, you never see me at a party, I'm invisible
Anybody recognize this guy?
My villain origin story starting to physical
Long scope for me to not to hit the target is difficult
Pardon me if I swerve in your lane
The juice is oozing out the needle
You could inject this dirt in your veins
Aim, squirt, leave your shirt stained
Robbin' the bank, that was to get the bread
Sharpen the guillotine, that's so I can get ahead
I took the torturers, shook your fortress
The book of Shaq warns us with
The way I'm hanging the hooks, it's no choruses
The Hannibal Lecter, I'm cheffing for supper time
And for the greens, I butterfly the steak, you see the stuff inside
You done well, but I'm the rarest breed
The ox cut him fairly deep
You couldn't outrun through trees when I'm bearing speed
Stirring the pot, I give the wrist a go
Duck when the pistols blow
Don't get stuck under the mistletoe
I'm foul, you might as well just let a whistle blow
Produced, not artificial grown
Dig in the beat and carve a whistle bone
Modern thinker, chop like a water sprinkler
Motorcycle Co., Henry Winkler
Banging the left without a blinker
I only order raw steaks
Recline Recaro seats in the Jetta, with the rocks from four states
I got them slappers with the boards
nigga, the wheel grind against the grill, that's ramping for the score
The hot furnace spin them, 1080 to the floor
Carry a torch like '84
Dangle his body from a balcony on the eighty floor
'Til they double up the budget and pay me more
Sang like a T-Pain chorus and blamed it on a crazy horse
You need a gang of luck to survive the trouble the gutter bring, it's double G
Allen, no cutlery, I'll gut you clean
