Lyrics
These are the real Sopranos
(Griselda)
Touchdown (Hail Mary)
Rollie face, bussdown
They want us to fail, but we up now (we doing great)
Bucks piling up, goin' through the roof (go insane)
Countin' dollars, son, you know that we in loot, uh (money)
Street scholars with gold up in the tooth (bling, bling, bling)
Five percent niggas showin' you the truth
The .45'll lift his soul out of his boots, son
Ghost rider doin' donuts in the coupe (yo, skrrt)
I'm just sitting smoking on this haze
Chilling, scrolling up my page
Thinking how the OGs is rolling in they graves
How many more gon' get exposed? (How many?)
How many souls are they gon' trade? (How many?)
When no loyalties exchange, that's how soloists get made
I'm a hands-on kind of boss
So it totally explains how I put coco over flames
Before a logo on a chain
Still standing, only Lord knows what I overcame (still here)
Feds still circle my face when they take Polaroids again (damn)
Fifteen thousand dollar fit thuggin', hoppin' out of shit frontin'
I pull up to the barbecue like, holla at your big bousin
Double cross, always from a friend, saw that shit comin' (I saw that comin')
Ten million shoot you out the gym, we call that Chris Mullen
Better use them two ears, God gave for listening (better use 'em)
Hope you guys paid attention, get your top scraped and blistered
The big league, just like Jackie 'cause I do not play with niggas
And it do not make a difference, not even rock, paper, scissors
Butch
Touchdown (Hail Mary)
Rollie face, bussdown
They want us to fail, but we up now (we doing great)
Bucks piling up, goin' through the roof (go insane)
Countin' dollars, son, you know that we in loot, uh (money)
Street scholars with gold up in the tooth (bling, bling, bling)
Five percent niggas showin' you the truth
The .45'll lift his soul out of his boots, son
Ghost rider doin' donuts in the coupe (uh, skrrt)
Stuffin' dough in the full safe, sip bottles that's half empty (empty)
Pullin' work out the pot, had to tap on the glass gently
Sometimes I miss it, hear me out (hear me out)
This rap shit get mad mixy (how though?)
It's some way attached to cash if they act friendly, uh
I really done grown man business by age twenty-one
Reasons I should paint the city? I had too many ones
Flow been silly since Biggie was crackin' Philly blunts
You feel me? (You feel me?)
Money talks and y'all niggas won't give a penny up (who?)
The boss man, who win a million up off a signature
And I been feelin' much like a villain
Since I been killin' your favorite rappers
Your fibula crackin' if it don't bend enough
When I hit that scorpion leg lock, the Kevorkian death shot
I'm gettin' bored while the fans watch (I'm gettin' bored)
I brought a lord to a dead block, then on to the next spot
Niggas can't fuck with me, nigga, it's Butch, nigga (The Butcher comin', nigga)
The biggest, the villain tape, Black Soprano Family, nigga (uh, let's go, uh)
Touchdown (Big Griselda, Hail Mary)
Rollie face, bussdown
They want us to fail, but we up now (we doing great)
Bucks piling up, goin' through the roof (go insane)
Countin' dollars, son, you know that we in loot, uh (money)
Street scholars with gold up in the tooth (bling, bling, bling)
Five percent niggas showin' you the truth
The .45'll lift his soul out of his boots, son
Ghost rider doin' donuts in the coupe (skrrt)