Joyner Lucas and Conway the Machine - Sticks & Stones

Yeah
Uh
Talk to these niggas, king
Look

Ayo, it be at least ten niggas shot every week (grr)
Get out of the streets, this ain't a game, this shit not for the weak
Just save your momma the grief (uh-huh)
Young niggas turn you to a pack, smoke you out of a leaf
Fiends shootin' in her toe knuckles, she noddin' to sleep (ah)
I accomplished a bunch of shit that's way out of your reach
And I'm still not at my peak, screamin' on the label, "All of them budgets gotta increase"
My project complete, yeah (this shit finished)
Look, if it ain't the Spade, this a bottle of Clicq'
Kalamata olive inside of my Greek, you know the model, make a million dollars, repeat (ooh)
Got that down to a T (talk to 'em)
The money machine ring and no wonder Machine sing and that Cullinan thin greenish
That brother just seems genius (yeah)
They talk the most but they haven't done anything meaningful yet, I'm at your neck
My releases is your financial threat, so stamp your checks
Impact for my next batch, it's predicted to crash the net (ah)
Look, you comin' for Machine? Then you better be at your best
Boy, you know the rules, you better clap if you flash your scat, facts
You know whenever we did them shows, SK and them niggas drove
You know if he pullin' up then he comin' with his poles (you know what that mean)
Nigga, play with us, then bro wipin' a nigga nose (woo, woo)
His reaction is put you on a shirt (boom-boom-boom-boom), no kin or code

My nigga, I'm in the zone
Reflectin' on my life and where I've been as I sip Patrón (yeah)
And who needs a money phone? My money talkin' no victim on (brr)
And who needs a wife when I keep that pipe that's Mrs. Jones (uh)
Ain't nothin' worse than havin' love for niggas with twisted souls (yeah)
The ones you call your brothers, grab the shovel and dig a hole (uh)
I've seen my own family stab my back, I should've known
They say sticks and stones'll break your bones, I'm sticks and stones
I wish I could pick up phones, but
I know there ain't no way in hell (yeah)
I think this rappin' shit is cool and, yeah, I played it well
But really I been contemplatin' quittin' if we stayin' real
But would you walk away from fifty million or be Dave Chappelle? (Uh)
I'd rather cry inside a yacht than an '88 Deville
Fuck my bitch over the balcony while we was chasin' wheels
Private chefs, dinin' best, lots of major meals
But when I'm with my kids, I'm at my best, that's how I stay fulfilled (yeah)
Nights in Miami, gettin' drunk and whippin' foreigns (uh)
Just copped a new Urus, you still buffin' up the Taurus (damn)
Stuntin' on you niggas, fly as fuck when I'm in orbit
Bought my mansion all in cash, you niggas fuckin' up your mortgage (ooh)
You want the fame and glory but don't got numbers to support it (word)
If you don't give me my flowers, bitch, I'm comin' with a florist (damn)
Your shorty ain't a groupie, she just fuck me 'cause I'm gorgeous
Hate when niggas kiss and tell, y'all just ain't nothin' but informants
Better get real, I do this for my niggas locked up, sleepin' on bed still (yeah)
I do this for my niggas trappin', workin' on their best skills (yeah)
For niggas out here stressin', head is spinnin' like roulette wheels (uh-huh)
Tryna make it back to home base with snakes in the left field (Joyner)
And I don't know how death feels, but I'll tell you how success feels
I'll tell you what it's like to have to worry 'bout your next meal (uh-huh)
I'll tell you what it's like to know who's a hundred and who's less real (uh-huh)
I'll tell you what it's like, uh, I'll tell you what it's like for real

Written by:
ADHD Productions, Demond Price, Mario Luciano, Gary Maurice Lucas, Jr., Boi Yanel, Leo Edward Son Jr.

Publisher:
Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Reservoir Media Management, Inc.

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