Hit-Boy and Dom Kennedy - CORSA

Uh
Yeah

Won't jump, clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't ridin' like you kids
They know what it is, peel off, Lambo tires skid
Doin' the most, imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead, all of the homies shit dead
Niggas can't call me their friends or call me their mans
Or call me their woadie, it's forty below
My heart is still colder, got it in Corsa, I'm revvin' the motor
I'm gettin' change, they won't see me slip through the crack
Shawty is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash

What you think all this Julio for?
She told me, "Go lock up the studio doors"
She actin' up like it's the movie awards
For real, for real, for real
You gotta love a discreet freak
That's for real, for real, for real
Nigga, it's twenty on my receipt
That's for real, for real, for real
I just left out H Lorenzo in Max Field
Tool on me, we still can't build
I be solo on the real, smokin' personal's a kill
I kept it 1k, that's how I'ma stay
She want a saint, but she not a saint
All team down, that's how I was raised for all of my days

Won't jump, clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't ridin' like you kids
They know what it is, peel off, Lambo tires skid
Doin' the most, imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead, all of the homies shit dead
Niggas can't call me their friends or call me their mans
Or call me their woadie, it's forty below
My heart is still colder, got it in Corsa, I'm revvin' the motor
I'm gettin' change, they won't see me slip through the crack
Shawty is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash (yeah)

Don't jump, clique to clique, most these guys is counterfeit
I'm in the hood without a stick, you never know, might see some shit
She love me 'cause I don't cum quick, I'm local but still out the mix
This stripper bitch live by the risk, talkin' slick gon' get you hit
I'm hood rich but I never trick, she fine but still, I won't commit
Spoiled hoes throwin' fists, want a nigga to pay that rent
I ain't like these rappers, all these trappers hustlin' backwards
All talk facts, bro, all you after is the fame and the pussy
That shit wack to us, uh, I put that on my cousin
I been thuggin', two tires cost like sixteen hundred
My nigga died, I'm drivin' home, I'm sick to my stomach
But self-pity won't cut it, I tell 'em, "Up the budget"
Now niggas wanna own their masters, y'all actors
I'm a factor, roll like tractors, playin' Ginuwine, the Bachelor
If I want it, I could have her, and my Amex say I'm platinum
At the car wash with a bad one, take a pic with me then tag 'em

Niggas can't call me their friends or call me their mans
Or call me their woadie, it's forty below
My heart is still colder, I got it in sport, I'm revvin' the motor
I'm gettin' change, they want me to me slip through the crack
Baby is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash

Won't jump, clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't ridin' like you kids
They know what it is, peel off, Lambo tires skid
Doin' the most, imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead (I'm too ahead), all of the homies shit dead (yeah)

Written by:
Chauncey A. Hollis, Dominic R. Hunn

Publisher:
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

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