Letras
(Drum dealers)
Uh, Big Gigi, uh, trap music
Uh, shout out to my trap makers, THF, for that
No one judges, they can't, but just for the buzz, they lyin'
Niggas get wind on them then they go high, well, I'ma want blood for mine
I even told my lil' 'cause he died fuckin' with me, you know you fried
When the killers get that load of money, couldn't be waitin' on you outside
Oh, boy, they comin' to your hood with fire, don't get in this car with that lil' ass nine
Boy, we got chopsticks, them bitches got switch, man, you can't back that fire
I done slid through every out block, but my favorite one's the Y
Even though it be hard to catch them niggas, 'cause they never be outside
Like bro I go no auto, lemme on the floor I'm still duckin' the pot hole
I get the double, yeah, I need the limo
And this shit go to me, you know that my hoe
Dirty guns, we gon' swap those, that murder comin', you bring up my bro
OT niggas think it's sweet, don't bring that shit here to Chicago
Can't hit all in your shit, just for bumpin' your guns, you get smoked
Try to flip my shit with this big ol' gun, take it slow
Boy, I been had your bitch before you had her, son, I had your hoe
And I own no funny shit, I bought her somethin' because his daddy broke
Shooters get that car, they come through quick like that ain't gold (ooh)
Shooters, you get that ball and shoot that bitch, you buy the scope (a move)
And foe m em get involved and come through blitzin', you gon' know
'Cause we ain't doin' all of that talkin', we gon' bring it to your door
Like, pussy, what's that shit you said?
You let me shit get to your head