Mr. Do The Dash – BabyTron

Reach for a chain? Boy, yo ass made hu-, aight
What up, BlueStrip? (Ooh, it’s BlueStrip, baby)
Yeah

Reach for a chain? Boy, yo ass made a huge mistake
Mister Do The Dash in the coupe, no, I don’t use the brakes
Why the fuck you got a vest on? We came to shoot yo face
Star player, came a long way from when I hooped on crates (Hey)
You still working two to eight
I still hit the set everyday and run through some pape’
Smelling like a pound of za in the newest BAPE
I cannot put you on the play, all you do is flake
I cannot put you on the team, yo stats looking rough
I cannot show you how to whip but unky cook it up
Two Glocks tucked, buying ice, lil’ bitch, I’m good in Hutch
Been the plug this whole time, I had to go and hook it up
First class flight straight to Heaven, Glocky took him up
Every dub I gotta take a diamond, go and put it up
You be scared where I be ’cause you ain’t hood enough
They ain’t never catch my hitman ’cause his hood was up
Bitch, I refuse to be outperformed
In a droptop, heard you stuck in the house with chores
She ain’t throwing neck? Jazzy Jeff, throw her out the door
Exotic vernors, pint of yeah ’round, think I’m ’bout to pour
(A few minutes later)
Think I’m ’bout to snore
Grown man stash, I can pull a hunnid out my drawer
Road runner, up shit whether I go south or north
High as hell eating chili cheese fries without a fork (Shee)
Spill my double cup and leave the floor sticky
Stone Island pants on my legs, these ain’t no Dickies
Bitch sent her CashApp, this lil’ ho so silly
Set the play up for lil’ bro, that’s the coach in me
Fully switch on this bitch, boy, this ain’t no semi
Trackhawks and Hellcats around, these ain’t no Hemis
Made it off the harder way but I don’t know Penny
Bankroll cotton candy, you ain’t gon’ see no twenties
What I’m drinking muddy, I ain’t sipping on no Casamigos (Who at the door?)
Fucked around and almost shot the peephole
Thinking that you Southwest T, but you ain’t got a kilo
Throw that bitch all the way down, call me Tron Marino
Bitch, I’m forever fresh, yeah, I got the juice
Hand cake to the cashier, I’m just copping shoes
You got some nerve in that coat, boy, that is not a Goose
Where the fuck 12 Mile Kyle? Boy, we gotta shoot
I need a six or a four, I can’t drop a deuce
Down in TX, I’m off a eight, feeling chopped and screwed
Dawg broke-ass cracked a joke but I am not amused
Sleeve Nash, I’ll close my eyes while I lob the ‘oop
Man, put that motherfucking gun down ’cause we both know you not ’bout to shoot
European sneaks on my feet, can’t pronounce the shoes
Men in Black type shit, shooter hopping out the coupe (Whew)
Thousand shots to his crib, now his house a roof
Can’t say exactly but it’s big shit I’m ’bout to do
Last dude I punched, two weeks till they found his tooth
Why you talking big money shit? You never counted blues
Fuck, damn, shit, two hunnid on the dash
Shit changed, got up off my ass, I’m running to the bag
Try some bullshit? Gang and ‘nem gon’ up a couple MAGs
Backwood, puff, puff, puff, bitch, fuck a pass
Somewhere tucked on the West with a quarter ticket on me
Flying trough the hood, hit the Coney with the pistol on me
Shit, I can’t smell what you cooking, you a big jabroni
We gon’ put you six feet deep, up a fist up on me (Brrr)
Somewhere sinning with a pair of Christians on me (Brrr)
Bitch do a trick, she done turned to a gymnast on me (Brrr)
No rap cap, I got some shit up on me (Brr-brr)
No rap cap, a thousand shots, you tryna get up on me
Engine purring, skrrting ’round, flowing in the Jag’ truck
Thank God I’m up, all them times I had some bad luck
Spent your life savings on these damn buffs
Scam God, I won’t stop till I’m in some hand cuffs

Hey
ShittyBoyz, Dog Shit Militia
You know what the fuck going on
Hey, hey
(Oh, it’s BlueStrip, baby)