YRS - Fast Food

I might be a fiend, I ain't ate shit besides a edible
If I wrote the check, then you know it's gon' be legible
He ain't got no motion, left his ass just like a vegetable
Take too long to come out, you gon' have me feelin' skeptical
Mine compared to yours, you gon' have to move to decimal
You niggas like my sons, but you ain't come from out my testicles
The head was amazing, but the pussy not acceptable
If the police book me right now, I'm probably goin' federal
I ain't have no play shoes, ran up a bag in some designer sneaks
You ain't tryna be rich right now, what you tryna be?
I can't send a link for my bag, cause you niggas cheap
Pulled a John Cena on a hoe after the first link
Pulled ten out the dash, I don't fuck with banks
Dude can't get pape, let me demonstrate
I'm geeked off exotic runts, put dreams to the face
I'm tired of coaching broke niggas, can't give you niggas game
I know it's not cut, I dropped a deuce it had no minerals
Walk up in the bank, they call me "Sir" just like a general
Emmett Till the nigga made his face look illegible
Say he got some rank, but in his hood he's not credible
Drop a hunnid jacks in your city, we had a festival
All you do is dick ride, we label homosexual
I ain't peak, I swear to God, I'm finna reach my pinnacle
Fuck a hand to hand, I'm gettin' pape off the digital
We can't do a song, you niggas samples, I'm original
If I see my opps on a play, then I'ma injure you
Pulled up on the side, I guess that he ain't use peripheral
And Momma seen my fake ID, she thinkin' I'm a criminal
But I told her I'ma get the pape as long as it stay printable
Every time I see that dumb bitch, she lookin' miserable
I'm startin' to think this bitch a doctor touchin' on my genitals
If you broke and you ain't got no hustle, that shit pitiful
We pull up, you skirt off, now you don't want no issue
You tryna find a new wave, now I'm surfin' past you
I can't cry about you, baby, I am not the last dude
I ain't paid off a scam, ran it up off fast food
But I might just scam too
Nigga, talkin' bout some banks, finna send a log through
Oh, you came to suck me? You gotta suck my dogs too
It's more digits in the dash than what's in your bank fool
You better chill before the Glock come and snatch you
You can try to duck the smoke, lil' boy, I'm finna track you
I ain't talkin' bout the hawk, boy, I'm finna smack you
Don't try to give me a reason, lil' nigga, I ain't ask you
I ain't sellin' raw no more, please come get a capsule
I ain't tryna cuff your hoe, please come get your hassle
If you run off on me, I'ma turn you into Casper
I think my dick good, I don't know I'm finna ask her
When I was a kid, granny said I was a rascal
Treat all the opps like a cop and harass em'
And I got the Glock while I meet up with the pastor
Hit him with this .45, this is not a fraction
And the chop got extended clips in case he want some action
If we talkin' beef and it's smoke, I'ma match you
How you get a jack up in the air but couldn't catch it?
If it's dog shit on the floor, I go fetch it
You ran a train on a burnt bitch, now you pepper men
Every nigga solid in my circle, I ain't gotta question them
If I think the police on my trail, call Lester then
Niggas broke, get up off your ass and go sell some shit

Written by:
Antonio Gaines, Christopher Reese, Seth Williams

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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