The Alchemist, Conway the Machine and Westside Gunn - Ray Mysterio

Ayo (brrt)
Ayo, ayo, ayo, ayo (ayo, ayo)
Luxurious fly shit (brrt, brrt)
Ayo (ayo)

Turn Judas for them Yeezy Season 3s
The pump's in the sleeves, don't make a nigga reach
Coke look bleach, pots and forks by the sink
Busted duct tape, that shit stink (shit stink, nigga)
Same night off for a week
Off-white collab, the MAC hangin' out the Lambo Jeep (brrt)
If you slip, I better catch yo' ass
Gave you 32 real fast (real fast)
My nigga this Hall and Nash
The imperial
Everything we shoot got no serials
This fly shit through your stereos
Coke flip like Ray Mysterio (now listen)
You fuck niggas don't hear me though
This that Fashion Avenue flow
Get it like Tuna in Blow and then we blow

(They can't do nothin' but respect us) ow
(Man, listen, we got EmpresSil) yeah
Talk to them bloodclaat, zeen? (You was already fucking up)
(Betta watch yo' head)

Look, name a rapper that's half as ill
That can match the skill that's half as real
Niggas be sayin', "Con, you have to chill"
'Cause I be spazzin' still, I swear these sucka niggas weird
Rap is good, but I will clap 'em still and fuck up my career (facts)
I ain't worried 'bout a jail
Don't give a fuck about them years (uh-uh)
Wild until I get the needle or I fuckin' get the chair
You got a blicky, but you pussy niggas bust it out of fear
My shooter in fatigues
Shotty like he huntin' for a deer, yeah (boom, boom, boom)
Run down on you and fire twice
The bullet wound lookin' like a lion bite
Bullets lookin' like a half a stick of dynamite
I was buyin' guns when you other niggas was buyin' Nikes
Rhymin' like Esco in the '90s, flow raw as a line of white
I beat your favorite rapper with an iron pipe (okay)
In the winter, fly to LA, where the climate right
Fuckin' the kinda hoes you'll never fuck in your entire life
Uh, Versace belt just to tuck the ratchet (uh-huh)
Can smell the piss on them bricks before I bust the plastic (okay)
Shooters lurkin' for you, they in fuckin' traffic (they lurkin')
They won't rest until they put you in a fuckin' casket, uh (brrt)

Had to really, really do something to get killed
Let's take it right on on, everything will be alright, y'all
You said good for what?
The streets love ain't about love, you know
Bottom line (bottom line, word up)
It's a whole different code
That, that's where the gang's at

The fuck is that? What's that?
Fuck you talkin' 'bout?
I don't run from the bag
I know one thing for sure, you won't be seen on the album
Fuck that niceness, see, y'all be nice, you know I'm sayin'
I'm in my fucking bag
(You gon' get loud, ah) are you dumb?
Probably ain't got no record player nowhere
So there you are, you getting the 411

Written by:
Daniel Alan Maman, Alvin Lamar Worthy, Demond Price

Publisher:
Lyrics © Royalty Network, Reservoir Media Management, Inc.

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