|
Dead Artist Lyrics - Artist : ShooterGang Kony
(Ayo Vin, that shit hard)
[ShooterGang Kony:] South truth, bitch, I keep it I been on the road fightin' demons, parking lot bleedin' Hit him in his throat, that's what you call gettin' even Niggas only listen to the kid when they need it On any given Sunday, I'm Willie Beamen I'll tag a nigga if he slide, Derek Jeter I'll break a bitch, make her pay the whole meter Suckers, all they rap about is weed, it get deeper Let's talk about your dead homies, too much bread on me (Ayy, ayy) Still blow my pole while the feds on me I shoot guns, I'm a vet, you sold dope Let this fully get to go, he gon' blow with no hope I got camo on the coat Bathing Say I'm comin' home, I leave a bitch waitin' Might've took her from her man, but I ain't bitch savin' Sayin' I can't rap or don't shoot, that's a shit statement Poppin' out stick hangin' I don't need one maintenance, my life fixed If I sift, I got chicken, I could pour the whole brick Lil Greg, that's my main mans, he can't miss If he did, shit, I must already hit him in this bitch Dressed in all red, I feel like John Marston Caught a wallflower at the mall, now he a target You ain't had a haircut in weeks, you look starvin' I'll put a nigga on a tape with his artist Ayy, bitch steady talkin' that shit Man, I love it when a thooter get to talkin' like she rich I'll put fully on you and switch whips Water on my wrist, give a fuck about a bitch Bro sell codeine, we need more lean I come from the trenches with the dope fiends You can see me ballin' from the nosebleeds I could never trust no broke bitch I got, ho, please Shooters get shot then rerocked (Yeah) Really off the top, I'll put you on the stove with this pot (Ah) I feel like a hypebeast, Supreme socks And I let her bite the dick 'cause the bubble say a lot (Nigga) Nigga diss me, he's a dead artist (Dead artist), uh Listened to your raps, shit garbage (Shit trash) Played another tape, still garbage (Garbage) I'm the spark plug, wouldn't start until I started, uh On the road Call my nigga Tef like this nigga need 'bows That wallflower over there, he need hoes He gon' flip the whole party, he don't get none of those I been on a hot streak, throwin' four-fives like it's nothin' What he on? Thought a nigga said somethin' Tough guy over there, he ain't sayin' nothin' Play a nigga like percussion when his leg get to bustin' Ayy, bitch steady talkin' that shit Man, I love it when a thooter get to talkin' like she rich I'll put fully on you and switch whips Water on my wrist, give a fuck about a bitch Bro sell codeine, we need more lean I come from the trenches with the dope fiends You can see me ballin' from the nosebleeds I could never trust no broke bitch I got, ho, please [BabyTron:] Off-White sweater with the pads like I play rugby Stop talkin' 'bout your bitch a dime, boy, her face ugly Turtle Pie, hundred-dollar 'Wood, boy, this eighth funky Ridin' in a Demon, next year, I'm gon' have Wraith money Got a shooter in my gang, I think he think he Kony Got bread like Hostess, thigh pad, I got a Twinkie on me I'll fuck your lil' bitch off the wink emoji White marble buffaloes, I damn near got a sink up on me All that wave riding, we gon' sink your ship and sail off Had to kick unky out the studio, my tails lost Pretty lil' bitch, booty jiggle and her nails glossed Five-twelve, two fifty-six, that's that mail talk Five-oh, there they go, shit, I'm finna hit a left Big stepper, big shitter, thousand-dollar Triple S Shitty Boy, titty boy, Hutch got me finna flex .300 Blackout split his chest, they'll rip his vest From the Mitten to the West Coast, name ringin' bells Play with one of us, Taco Bell, make him eat a shell Stop talkin' all that trap shit, you never seen a scale Stop talkin' all that trap shit, you ain't seen a sale Punch God, walkin' down the giffy aisle with a smile Hitman one call away'll kill you with a dial Sawed off the Off-White, I pulled up with a rifle Fraud champ, I'm just ridin' 'round lookin' for the title Ella Delle Donne, my bitches block shots Aim it at his legs, watch him hopscotch Bally 201s, these jammers top-notch Let me see what's in that pop, boy, that is not drop Zazas in the foreign, got it hotboxed Ridin' 'round the world tourin' in a droptop Baby Draco turn his hoodie to a croptop Bitch, I got the ups, I can damn near touch the shot clock Faygo Rock |
Copyright © 2009-2024 |