Boi Mystery - SEAFLOOR (feat. miles)

They ain't catch me lackin', that was never a question
And I might take your hoe, but your boy got fake depression
Why you stressin' out, you know that shorty for the streets
She accidentally grab my Smith and Wesson feelin' for my meat
I asked you your perspective, what you feel, what you believe, boy
I don't want attention, I just wanna be on the scene more
And I been grindin', I'm finna blow up just like a C4
All my VV's shinin' like the bottom of the seafloor

Chillin' off the gas, you know this is the life that chose me
You won't ever ever see me go back to the old me
Lead the league in scorin', think I'm averagin' like forty
Get your hoe, she whorin', I'm just coolin' with my shorty
And when we pull up to the function we like four-deep
I can't even answer her now, cuz she ignore me
I'ma go drop forty
I don't even need no spendin' money, cuz I'm scoring
Cartier cost fourteen
Pounds prolly cost fourteen
If you in my whip, then the pedal to the floor, b
If you mess with me, then I'ma give yo ass a four-piece
Cruisin' Forest Drive Hills, like it's two-thousand and fourteen
But that's another story
We in the hotbox, step out the DeLorean
Never put a thot in my order of importance
Love to chase the bag just as much as I love recordin'
What to do about my hoes, I never get 'em sorted
Everything I got inside my garage is for performance
So what did you expect when I copped all those Jordans
Slim roll some Dutches, and we sippin' Coke and Morgan
I had to kill 'em off, ain't mean to make it morbid
Chillin' in the stu, you know I'm with the boy, recordin'
Fuck your bitch and leave her, cuz you know she actin' borin'
Know I'm goin' hard, I'm on my bullshit like I'm Jordan
Chillin' on my cool shit, now I'm drivin' in the foreign
I'm gettin' bands, yuh
You know your shorty seein' me, she in a trance, yuh
She feelin' on me like there's VV's in my pants, yah
These pussy n****s wanna be me, understand, yuh
I'm throwin' bands, yah

They ain't catch me lackin', that was never a question
And I might take your hoe, but your boy got fake depression
Why you stressin' out, you know that shorty for the streets
She accidentally grab my Smith and Wesson feelin' for my meat
I asked you your perspective, what you feel, what you believe, boy
I don't want attention, I just wanna be on the scene more
I been grindin', I'm finna blow up just like a C4
All my VV's shinin' like the bottom of the seafloor

(Whoa whoa whoa whoa)
(Yea, yea, yea, yeah)
(Whoa, Whoa, Whoa)
(Just like the)

Written by:
Miles Dix, Sammy Seppala

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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