Q.Rock639 - Untitled

Word to my long-lost kid
I try to stay positive, but the states have records on the shit I did
It wasn't big
Just putting little bags of white in executives' briefcases late at night
My friends ain't much better but we stay tight
Catching cases, losing patience
About to take it to your head
Run the jewels, if you move your fucking shoes, your dead
Not an inch, I'm convinced that in a pinch I'll shoot
More than my mouth or my cavity tooth
Under pressure
Trying to push a Tesla
Walking in the concierge be like "Yes Sir"
Bedroom oak wood dressers
Blacker than Aunt Ester
Whatever rapper you like, I'm better my lyrics are fresher
My CDs are like dope testers
Addictive lyrical gestures
Pointing out those who write lesser
The rapper that you love's a bitch and I don't stress her
Or that tight-breasted sweater
Better wrap it up like a dub of some shit
No sticks, no seed or stems in that shit
I'm OG like kush
Operation Push
Watch for the cops, put that shit up in the bush
Yeah
I'm something like a bizarre wizard
Eating gizzards and biscuits
Break guitars into splinters, beat the stage on some Jimi Hendrix shit
I keep a ganja clip smoking out the window
I don't get a lot about this world
But I get dough
Outside the house in the summertime
Game Time
Maple leaves, palm trees, bad breezies, gang signs
Eight o'clock I'm refueling and re-upping my inventory
My shooters got them
But yo that's a whole other story
It's only right that if you bear your chest
You get burned
Los Angeles be on that shoot out shit, they some true Westerns
Keeping food on the table
Keep the lights on, son
Saying grace before you eat
That's butter on them guns
Rounded out the prayers, then hit the streets
To see what's good
But it's a short trip, cause ain't nothing moving
Like it should

Written by:
Laron Cue

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

Lyrics powered by Lyric Find