BabyTron - Spidey-Senses

(Enrgy made this one)
Hey

Quarter ticket on me, no need to exaggerate
It's the middle of the week, but it's feeling like a Saturday
You ain't got no pull, I'm known from Maine down to Santa Fe
Running up my accolades, tell a bitch to act her age
Couldn't even hide that he was slimy, dog a rattlesnake
Shit I'm too schooled on the streets, I had to graduate
Tension in the air, we see the opps, make 'em evaporate
Sipping dirty Mardi Gras, them robbers make a masquerade
You a dirty bum, don't make me break down and elaborate
Coulda went and grabbed a normal foreign, tryna stack a Wraith
We ain't giving extra .1s, let it calibrate
Life ain't a fairy tale, the villains be victorious
Shit I'm thumbing through a book, I got more pape than a historian
Fuck around and fly the whip around, you think it's a DeLorean
He won't come outside the crib, stay in the house, he just be Coryin'
Jefe knocking patients down with scripts, Dr. Kevorkian
Dub, dub, dub, dub, this year has been glorious
German source on Discord he got me speaking Sorbian
On the road with fire slides and punches, just like scorpion
All that rah-rah you talking, it don't un-lame you
Shooters they been practicing, gon' fuck around and gun range you
You been M-I-A, shit you must be out of luck, ain't you?
Ask a bitch like, "If I up this roll you gon' fuck ain't you?"
Part time hustle comes with part time results
When I pop a P it's like Bruce Banner turning Hulk
Shit I feel my Spidey-Senses tingling, spinning the McLaren
All the horsies in the trunk, you think the whip came with a carriage
Belt to ass, see the opps and whip them like they parents
Wedding cake touch, plug text, like it's time for marriage
All these stores letting me down, might catch a flight to Paris
Know you see this jewelry on my neck, don't strain an eye from staring
Yeah my pain deep, but my bag deeper
Told the plug pull up with loud, he came through tryna blast speakers
If I like it, I'ma grab it, I am not a tag reader
Shit he running out of miles, just go check his gas meter
Catching bricks, glass cleaner
Where I'm at, grass greener
Said he sent a hundred mutts, but shooting with his bad finger
SIG SAUER with the long nose, like an anteater
Tryna add me up, someone go please go grab the math teacher
Shit fuck
Finna geek up like we at the Comic Con
Every time I see her I get ate (eight) call her octagon
How I took off in this foreign whip, you think I shot to prom
I can't give the new punch site, that bitch bomb.com
Hundred ounce of retro red, it's finna get nostalgic
Smoking California in Miami, but the kicks Italian
Militia vibes, you catch a hat, and you gon' get medallions
Gang be running her like errands, why you think that bitch a stallion
We ain't gotta check dog, he gon' self guard
Dee got the LMG, he tryna hit your health bar
You still probably rocking Roc, this some Hellstar
Punch work so fire it might melt cards
I can't tell you where we working at, location unknown
I'm a rapper, let the ARP sing all the love songs
We gon' make it flood, throw it up 'til the club close

(ShittyBoyz, Dogshit Militia)
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn
Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, damn

Written by:
James Johnson

Publisher:
Lyrics © EMPIRE PUBLISHING

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