BabyTron - Headless Horseman
(If you ain't got a beat from Bam, you don't drop enough)(Helluva made this beat, baby)
Shit, I'm tryna land, I gotta find a helicopter pad
All these baby bottles, probably thinkin', "Where the toddlers at?"
Why the fuck this bitch think she a dime with her copper ass?
DSM lieutenants send a blitz, they hit back, "Roger that"
Diamonds dancin', ain't no light trick, mirage, or illusion
A kid without a whip or a crib, like, shit, what's more confusing?
Eskimo and this some cocaina, Titi snore right through it
Let me know if it's really some beef, gon' put my fork right through it
Treatin' the drank like a plank of wood, yeah, I'ma four-by-two it
Wrestlin' wit' my sleep, "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan
Earlier than breakfast, I'll knock the jam off his muffin
It's sixteen of y'all wit' one pint, y'all can't all sip somethin'
Think we even, dawg the Headless Horseman, he done lost his pumpkin
Telegrammin' with the scam, we wake up, watch the sauce get flooded
Money conversatin', shut the fuck up, 'less you talkin' hunnids
He ain't hit a shot or score forever, must've lost the bucket
Brodie got new F&N, he clutchin' like the game endin' (three, two-)
Yo' mans ballin' up his fist up in Heaven since you put him on that fake pendant
Heard yo' tape and you ain't say shit like a blank message
First place vibes, gold medal, I can't take second
Haha, yeah
Just got a new crib built, the only time I ever been window shoppin'
Cuddy get up close wit' stick and then he whisper, "Flip yo' pockets"
Wear a helmet, stop, drop, and roll, or we gon' hit yo' noggin
How the fuck you middlemannin' wrong? Ain't even get no profit
Chillin' like a villain, lips zipped, ain't really big on gossip
Four tweak tools in it, boy, my geek kit on toxic
Pull up hooded up wit' white sticks on, look like the Grand Wizard
Wood Russian Drac', he shot that bitch and gave my hands splinters (brrt)
Choppa' wit' the zoom, I'm on the Seven hittin' opps on Grand River
Think he fuckin' wit' the gang, the pussy boy delusional
Wake up, get fly, get high, the usual
Moo Shu in the booth, bitch, I'm a fire spitter
Still catchin' the bus to go to work, boy, I'm a tire spinner
Fiend text me "Virgil," 'cause she snort coke
Leave yo' bitch 'round me, gon' leave her wit' a sore throat
Try to battle wit' the G.O.A.T., but look boy, yo' sword broke
Stop talkin' to me, bitch, yo' crib cost my wardrobe
Written by:
James Johnson
Publisher:
Lyrics © EMPIRE PUBLISHING
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