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Pink 3 Remix
por
GloFromDa4
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(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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