Scrape The Bowl (feat. Benny The Butcher)

B.B. Butcher
Let's get it

From Detroit to Buffalo, we love to smuggle blow
Soon as the pack landed, I let a couple go
Michigan, back to New York, keep burning up the pipe
We turning up at night, I just earned another stripe
90 East and 94, ducking the state patrol
I had to move safe and low, 'specially 'cause my face was known
Free all my hitters in the clink just tryna make parole
I'ma still scrape the bowl 'til the day you make it home

We need a place to pitch, ain't a mound, get a brick, break it down
Hit a lick, take you down, take a city, rape a town
80 big ones in the ceiling, tell that bitch, "Don't make a sound"
'80s babies still in prison, wish that I could break him out
Stood up and he made us proud, told him, "When I make it out
We ain't gon' have to risk our life no more, I found a safer route"
I just shot a kite to bro, he put me on a paper route
Now we on the road, 36 Os wrapped up in paper towel
My witness ain't show up to court, the judge, he had to weigh the trial
They say I got a morbid sense of humor, but that made me smile
Shout out to my shooter, when he drill you, that's a flagrant foul
Just put in for his appeal, he told me it might take a while
Told him, "Ain't shit but some time, just make sure that you make it count" (Uh-huh)
"And when you get back out that bitch, don't let these niggas take you out"
"Or trick you out the street again, these bitches out here chasing clout" (Huh)
"Make sure you double-count it, give a fuck how long it take to count" (Yo)

I channel my thoughts, dope in my scale, hand on my fork
We hustlers, prices double up when it land in New York
Wait, name a clique with a rep substantial as ours
And the work so good, all the fiends compare you to God
Dope shooters walk my block like it's the Land of the Lost
I gave back to the ghetto, they never hand you awards
Cool, this for the homies that's dead, and in the yard
All the road trips to cop work what got my stamina strong
I got my bitch putting animal on
I got my first brick and copped cameras for the crib and the alarm
Two Os and a V like that Canada squad
Magic in the pot like I whip grams with a wand, yeah
This for the money, the hundreds left in the basement
The stash box we only touch on special occasions
Y'all not up 'cause y'all do it just to get famous
The plug hit me back, and I been destined for greatness

From Detroit to Buffalo, we love to smuggle blow
Soon as the pack landed, I let a couple go
Michigan, back to New York, keep burning up the pipe
We turning up at night, I just earned another stripe
90 East and 94, ducking the state patrol
I had to move safe and low, 'specially 'cause my face was known
Free all my hitters in the clink just tryna make parole
I'ma still scrape the bowl 'til the day you make it home