Correction Paroles Pink 3 Remix par GloFromDa4

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Paroles

(Yeah, yeah, what)
Killing these n***as, I'm feeling like Adolf
She keep suckin' my meat 'till I [?] off
Sike, you thought the beat went off
But it's actually 'bout to drop, here we go
Sike, I just did it again
Her name Mercedes, I might buy her a Benz
I'm wit' Jay, Oxy, so tell her bring a friend
Feel like Juice WRLD, the party never ends
(Yeah, what)
Can't you tell?
The Glock like Harry Potter, turn you to spells (Poof)
Yeah, we wishing him well
We throw him in the watеr, wishing well
The Glock finna "Glrr, yah, yeet," herе's a bell
Creep in yo house like I was Annabelle

5 a.m., and I'm still smoking shells
And I'm fucking this bitch 'till she [?]
Hit his ass wit' the X, and I'm not talkin' Yale
And I'm watchin' these n***as, the fuck is a scale?
She gave me a [?] so I think it's a spell
White shooter, and he look like a whale
African n***a, he ashy as hell
New stick, n***a, this ain't a problem
Keep that stick on my hip, hit that boy in his top
How you swear you a thug but you tellin' the cops?
Got this G-19 on my hip
But I ran out of bullets so I hit triangle wit' the swap
He don't want smoke wit' the gang, get him knocked off
Walk down, we finna slide wit' the top off
Top down, n***a, we lettin' the Glocks off
[?], mine real, but you wearin' the knockoffs
She tryna ride on my dick wit' the cock off (Blrr)
Turn my back to the wall like VLONE
Got a [?], G-45, hit that boy in his dome
And that bitch tryna fuck, to the hit on my phone (Gang)

I'mma stay wit' my friends but I'm rockin' VLONE
If he hit like a drum, it's gon' beat like a gong
We gon' 'P to the addy to see what they on
When we got here, the n***a was still like a gnome
She gon' talk to the 808, hearin' my song
Like a new ass arena, we aimin' for domes
And I don't got a heart, like I'm geeked, my shit Chrome
My diamonds [?], bitch, it be on two-tone
Right, foot, creep
Like YoungBoy, we slidin' wit .38's aimin' for tops
Ain't shootin' at kids, but this shit finna bop
What XanMan said, man, this Chris finna Rock
Make a [?] survive when we slid on his block
So we gon' slide again but this G ain't gon lock
Treat the n***a like a Rollie, these bullets gon "Grrah"
on top
Now yo man's on the ground, he got the chalk
Walk in the funeral, better not talk
Not from the A, but these bullets gon' hawk
Stay in the trap like my name was McCaulk
Dumb-ahh n***a, I think he meant Culkin
Glide on the beat, bitch, I'm not fuckin' walkin'
She on my page, why the fuck is she stalkin'?
Ain't that yo bae, why the fuck is she gawkin'?
Whole lotta red, I ain't talkin' bout Carti
I got so many chops, you would think it's an army
Shout-out to Yeat, fuck yo ho, I ain't sorry
'Bout that, bitch, I'm the life of the party
Not talkin' ass when she call me an A-hole
Shout-out to Soulja, I stay wit' the Draco
Chop hit him once and we turn him to Play-Doh
We make him lose his mind, Faygo
She call me papa, ain't talkin' bout John
They call Dakota "Mr. Put-It-On"
Choppa [?], this shit got a [?]
She shakin' ass when they turn on my song, uh
You talkin' down, I'mma up it
Sixteen shooters, they blow like a trumpet
Bitch, I'mma win and that boy is a upset
Glock finna spark like he seein' the sun
World War 3 if that boy try to run
Up, poppin' him once and we done
Think that you ate, n***a, you got a crumb
Think that is drip, n***a? You is a bum
-O-clock, I fuck yo ho at like, 9-o-clock
I walk around in my Dior socks
That n***a ain't cap, he don't beat or box
Put that away, I don't wanna see yo props
[?], how I came out the trap
[?], .45, and this shit got a clap
Testicle, run up the sack
(Buh, buh)
Bullets go right through your hat
Think you the one, you was cuffin' a gnat
Feline, bitch, I'mma hop out the cat
[?], bitch, we all know that's an act
Pink Chrome Hearts on my muhfuckin' back
Glock on my hip, I'mma fuckin' revolve it
You got a problem, well, then fuck n***a, solve it
Just like an angel, lil' n***a, you fallin'
That boy been a bitch, huh, I called it
We leavin' that lil' boy lost, shout-out Luisss
Say you uppin' the score, fuck n***a, you losin'
You cannot hate on no pickin' or choosin'
Posted on yo block, bitch call me Rueben
Feel like I'm Yeat, Mr. X wit' the boot-up
I'm here wit' Glo, and he lookin' like Buddha
Glock-17 on my hip wit' the cooler
Cobra on his head, I call him Medusa
I just been whippin' the pack, you the plug on the socket
You talkin' crazy, you get smacked
Fifteenhunnid never lack
And your door, better lock it, 'cause we runnin' up in yo trap
Run in yo trap, "FBI, open up"
"Oh you made ten racks?" (I don't give a fuck)
My bitch got a Glock, and yo bitch got a tummy tuck
I get the racks, pussy n***a, I run it up
Lil' ho, I'm maajins, you know that I'm drummin' up
And no, I ain't totin' a Glock
Call you Lil Uzi, the way you get popped
You come to my trap, bitch, you better knock
I keep a 'K and these bullets gon' flock
"Oh, what's in my pocket?" (Fah), a Glock
Crop the boy out the picture, he a blooper
I'm [?] something else, lil' ho [?]
You don't hop out a scat, bitch, you hop out the Uber
Like "you don't got a car?"
"Shit, my fault"
Walk up in his crib and we takin' his vault
Walk up in his- (Yuh, yuh, grrah, grrah!)

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