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(feat. S.A.S.) |
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[Mega: talking] |
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You know, yeah SAS, Streets All Salute |
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J.R. Writer Dutchbeatz yeah we the BG's |
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[Mega:] |
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I been patient fam' stuck in this crazy land |
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Where men will lick your head off your shoulders so they can make a grand |
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No snitchin, naw I'm bout to take a stand |
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My trumpet get the spittin you thinkin it's finna make the band |
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No safety, blow like it's A.C. |
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Call me bird's eye you heard why I make P's |
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I'm about my wealth |
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So I need a range rover that named after a book that's about myself |
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And it's over dosha, when I flip and put the razors to your face |
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I ain't talkin bout a Motorola |
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Big claims know you won't clap back at us |
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I have your whole strip runnin like they tryin to catch a bus |
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Oh you sellin drugs you can get your melon slugged |
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Then get swept off of your feet like you fell in love |
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I can fight but the guns preferred |
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We them Dipset thunder birds now watch we rain on them |
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[Chorus x2: Mega] |
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Why try, you're gon' die I |
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Pull up in a drop with the pistol cocked |
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When I pop I'm waving bye-bye |
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You don't drive by, all you is drive by |
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They call Byrd Gang you heard fam' |
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We fly high |
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[J.R. Writer:] |
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Okay, Writer |
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My my I'm sky high the fly guy |
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Pull up to your bitch escape with a whip from space I'm talking sci-fi |
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Why try to out do me I doubt truly |
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Cause J's an ape so stay in your place I ain't never been a slouch Scooby |
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Listen you not as sharp I'm getting the gwope to start |
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You ain't seen bigger m's since the McDonalds arc |
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These gangstas Pac at heart in front of your bitch |
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To turn and look like what who you comin with miss |
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You my son get the drift |
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So right now I be dissin myself, if I called you a son of a bitch |
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Give it up for the dips, cause it seem so simple |
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Yet I'm "So Sick" like a Ne-yo single |
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I will blast them, leave them I a casket box |
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Sleepin with the saddest 'ock for leapin like an astronaut |
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I keep the tech sucka |
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So I don't care if your pops marry my mother |
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How dare you step brother |
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[Chorus] |
