Sith Lord – BabyTron

Ayy, ayy, ayy (Ooh shit, that’s a Danny G beat)

Do the dash in a Scat, fly it like a X-wing
Bitch, I’m Mr. Pull Up To The Bank And Make The Check Ping
Back to back champ, yo team losing like the tenth seed
I’ll cut the traction off and make the ‘Vette squeak
Ksubi jean rocker, riding ’round with some bean poppers
Everybody five plus, we don’t do the team hoppers
Scam vet, 2016, I would’ve green dot her
7.62s demolish shit, this a tree chopper
Punching like a boxer, I don’t box but we can box you up
Three five of Jelly Bean Pie, taking toxic puffs
How is you the source? Placed an order, you ain’t got enough
Dog Shit Militia, cracking cards got my pockets stuffed
Made some shit off that one shit, shoutout Donald Trump
Samsung freezer, ten minutes, turn the Wock’ to slush
It’s gon’ be a long night if I pop the trunk
Grab a coat, it’s a cold night when I rock the buffs

You didn’t know? It’s time to get to it
Bro hitting whippits, clutching Glocky in this bitch zooted
Real shooter, only swish too
Tool got a ladder, hit his crib tryna improve it

Chop talking, Wock’ dropper, swerving in the newest Demon
I just hit the mall again ’cause I was Gucci feening
If we ever had a conversation, I was ruddy speaking
Better have that same energy when that tooly swinging
Head nodding ’cause this song a hit
Crackhead, spilling red on ’em, I be dogging kicks
Upgraded ten on it, finna frost the kicks
.223s knock the dreads off him if he talking shit, huh
Vanilla giffies in the trunk, in the rental road running
Beamed up, Darth Maul, bro double pole clutching
You blowing up her phone? I got her in here toe touching
This drum mag’ real as me, it’s a whole hunnid
Head to toe, check her down like a Louis mannequin
Skywalking off the Runtz, I feel like Luke and Anakin
Drip God, damn near a pool I’m standing in
In the newest pair of Crocs, blow, scooping packages
If it’s up, we gon’ handle it
Uncle Scam, best believe that I’m taxing him
This shit getting easy, I don’t need the practicing
You gon’ end up head on the curb if you flash a blick
In my Air Forces like a Jedi
I pull up from wherever, bitch, I got some deadeye
Widebody, hogging two lanes, this a red eye
He said I won’t hit his bitch but bet I, huh
Lemme stop, cooking up, Betty Crock
Dime bag copper? Boy, that’s you, I don’t petty shop
Looking like I got expelled in these Fendi flops
Thigh pad in these ‘Miri jeans, lost a heavy knot
Catch him at the light, we gon’ leave him with a totaled whip
I don’t stress no more ’cause I know I’m it
The sauce ain’t for sale, that shit over with
Heard yo unky crying in the trap, tryna hold a brick

Old-ass, poor-ass, bitch
Ayy, ShittyBoyz