Lyrics
Free all my niggas in the (?) from hoopin' who do trial for them shootings
My prison pals who be catchin' pops off a interval
Don't do no boostin', rollin' up while the sample loopin'
Spot look like House Party 3, but this ain't no Kid n' Bilal
Visions of (Sal ?) in the stoop, me, Headache, him, and Gus
I'm Ian Dutch on The View 'fore he did that twenty plus
Or me and Fat D passin' out our number to the clucks
Handin' out free sample packs, if you like this shit, hit me up
Ain't stoopin' to your level, too busy ballroomin'
Bike-lanin', on a Zoom call, I took the call zoomin'
Tryna chase that pape' down, did twenty plus on a breakdance
Opened up a new spot across the street from Skate Land
Racked up like eight grand, strapped like a spray can
Trap like I'm Ray-Bans, rap like I can't dance
I can't stand when these niggas cap like they ain't fans
Really be out here fakin' Jack, so Jack really a made-man
Take you back to the trap house duckin' a raid van
Never had a paper route or no lemonade stand
I put a chokehold on a brick, cookie-shade grams
Count, smoke, crink and pour the drink up with the same hand
Press up a CD, I ain't talkin' 'bout no blank disc
Spin up a eighthy and a AP with the same wrist
Wipe 'em down, the first time around they had to change clips
The pushers paid double, they sick I came trips
Whole lot of gang shit
Thousand-grams of gray shit, this not no edible arrangement
Can't get too acquainted, way too much criminal engagement
Ain't gon' get you shit but a federal arraignment
I'm not a stranger to this game, I'm just a gamer
Live from the manger, could've been locked up for the remainder
Smilin' in the face of danger, loadin' chops in the Prism
Head high, chin up, chest out, throwin' rocks at the prison
Do the same thing to you that they just did to you, know who
But that's between me and you, you ain't no shooter, you's a smut
Never change scenes for the view, this photo might not be for you
Hundred shots'll leave you swimmin' in a pool of you-know-what
Had way too much time on my hands for me to ever think out loud
Ain't have to catch up with my crowd, I always been my own man
Movin' dust on the 6, new Gucci scuffs on the kicks
Used to be cuts on my wrists, now it's a fully-blown band
Take you back to the trap house duckin' a raid van
Never had a paper route or no lemonade stand
I put a chokehold on a brick, cookie-shade grams
Count, smoke, crink and pour the drink up with the same hand
Press up a CD, I ain't talkin' 'bout no blank disc
Spin up a eighthy and a AP with the same wrist
Wipe 'em down, the first time around they had to change clips
The pushers paid double, they sick I came trips