Bitch, yeah
ShittyBoyz (Helluva made this beat, baby)
ShittyBoyz, young GOATs, we some legends in the making
Squaring up? We gon’ make dawg wrestle with the pavement
Big Balenciaga Track.2s, ain’t stepping in no Asics
Two long sleeves in the forest, spreading out them Franklins
Huh, big shitter, throw a diaper on me
MSR work, 2201 sliders on me
Gang’ll let a hundred chops sing, put a choir on him
Stepped out with that bread on me, looking like bologna
We’ll slide down and wrap him up like a enchilada
Niggas wanna beef, why would I if it ain’t ’bout a dollar?
Got her on the bed grabbing covers, tryna not to holler
Try to shoot yo shot, she gon’ block it, call it Serge Ibaka
He dropped a diss song, since then y’all ain’t heard about him
I was fucked up with a dollar, turnt it into commas
Gang looking like we SpaceX, we brought in the rockets
She don’t want no love, lil’ bitch like what’s in my pockets
I don’t need a tat, I was stamped before I said a word
On this road we call life, we might just have to swerve
Four of Wock’ in a Maui Burst, I might slur my words
Unc’s phone chirping, catch him on the curb serving birds
Catch his dead-ass getting buried, get his hearse reversed
Saying that you up just to fuck? Boy, don’t perp to her
Left a couple hoes in the past and I know they hurt
Used to jugg hams, they would say I’m a fucking jerk
Good on the West and the East like I’m LBJ
Every bitch want me to spin but never held me safe
Tryna fight? Boy, that’s kinda like tryna sell me eighths
I’ll do hibachi back to back till my belly ache
Hit the strip and threw five like we playing patty cake
Thought he was a demon, how they send him to the Heaven Gates?
Good zaza to the face, I might levitate
Bitch told me do the dash, I almost made the pedal break
Need a Kleenex, I got boogers in my bezel face
They ain’t wanna see us make it here, it’s time to celebrate
Put him in a suit, smoke his ass like some Wedding Cake
Really Chris Kyle with that fucker, I got steady aim
Pull up on a opp without three hundred, still let it bang
We gon’ sweep whoever, they can’t make it to the seventh game
Feel like Mother Nature in the strip, the way I let it rain
We ain’t even talk, I bent her over, told her say my name
Summertime, we hopping out in turbans clutching Russian rifles
On the dark web pinging shit, where’s my punching title?
Dior sneaks, Palm Angel joggy, bitch, I run in style
Ain’t no gift cards in this bitch? Nigga, fuck this aisle
Came a long way from the closet, it was hot as hell
Dawg swear to God he got some money, I could hardly tell
His new shoes creased ’cause he had to walk far as hell
Get paid to talk shit, you still working hard as hell
Let him throw a fist, buddy toast, throw some jelly on him
You already know that it’s a hit if we got Helly on it
Told him get the whole fit, I ain’t taking selfies on it
Death from above, shoot the chop out a heli’ on it
T-double H-L, we ain’t really seen comp’
We been locked in since forever, we don’t team hop
For them jacks, you’ll catch me climbing up a bean stalk
We cracking EDDs, you be jugging since them green dots
www.pillowlyrics.com
419786
497975
88k
20