CAPA/TRACKLIST
Letra : RIP
That boy J-Dolla go crazy
Hlk produced this beat
Stop cappin', I be with them gang bangers and them killers
Don't text my phone if it ain't 'bout skrilla
You could get shot, n***a, like a Triller
This Glock make him dance like he doing the Thriller
That boy is a fan, f**ked his b*t*h in the villa
Try reach for his stick, don't, Bryson Tiller
Bustin' this Glock is my pain-killer
My Glock talk a lot, it don't got no filter
Chuck-E-Cheese, I'ma run up my tokens
Bum n***a, got a 5-vest and it's broken
Run up that sack, n***a, 'til I'm floatin'
I poured up a four right in front of the open
Sippin' and I'm all off of them potions
Money, I get it, I don't got time for loafin'
Shawty on me, boy, you know that she blowin'
said this Glock leave him frozen
Yeah, this Glock leave him motherf**kin' frozen
Yeah, I shot that boy right in the open
N***a try run up, uh
And n***a got sent up to the sky, to his guys, R.I.P
And it's basic, and I put yo' ho down like a basement
I don't want to play with that b*t*h, she not [?]
Don't want to roll up with you, I'm not facin'
I'm in her mouth, n***a, like some braces
You ain't even beef with the gang, you is playin'
I'm goin' hard like it's NBA Jam
but I don't do scams
Need me a Birkin, all white b*t*h, man, like Suburban
You talkin' to gang, n***a, you ain't perfect
I got a thirty round, call up [?]
You wanna ride with the gang, you [?]
I'm with yo' ho, man, like I'm swervin'
Hollow tip bullets, man, what's yo' [?]
Pull up at night time, now he dead
B*t*h, at [?], they like, "Damn"
Smoking that gas, green eggs and ham
You a opp n***a, you ain't them
Walk outside, n***a, with a Lamb'
He stay inside, n***a, he a simp
My pockets they blue like R.I.P
You keep [?] with the gang, you get killed
Hlk produced this beat
Stop cappin', I be with them gang bangers and them killers
Don't text my phone if it ain't 'bout skrilla
You could get shot, n***a, like a Triller
This Glock make him dance like he doing the Thriller
That boy is a fan, f**ked his b*t*h in the villa
Try reach for his stick, don't, Bryson Tiller
Bustin' this Glock is my pain-killer
My Glock talk a lot, it don't got no filter
Chuck-E-Cheese, I'ma run up my tokens
Bum n***a, got a 5-vest and it's broken
Run up that sack, n***a, 'til I'm floatin'
I poured up a four right in front of the open
Sippin' and I'm all off of them potions
Money, I get it, I don't got time for loafin'
Shawty on me, boy, you know that she blowin'
said this Glock leave him frozen
Yeah, this Glock leave him motherf**kin' frozen
Yeah, I shot that boy right in the open
N***a try run up, uh
And n***a got sent up to the sky, to his guys, R.I.P
And it's basic, and I put yo' ho down like a basement
I don't want to play with that b*t*h, she not [?]
Don't want to roll up with you, I'm not facin'
I'm in her mouth, n***a, like some braces
You ain't even beef with the gang, you is playin'
I'm goin' hard like it's NBA Jam
but I don't do scams
Need me a Birkin, all white b*t*h, man, like Suburban
You talkin' to gang, n***a, you ain't perfect
I got a thirty round, call up [?]
You wanna ride with the gang, you [?]
I'm with yo' ho, man, like I'm swervin'
Hollow tip bullets, man, what's yo' [?]
Pull up at night time, now he dead
B*t*h, at [?], they like, "Damn"
Smoking that gas, green eggs and ham
You a opp n***a, you ain't them
Walk outside, n***a, with a Lamb'
He stay inside, n***a, he a simp
My pockets they blue like R.I.P
You keep [?] with the gang, you get killed
