Hold On Wait
Yeah, chill
Draco (Soulja)
Soulja, murder gang
Look, woah
Free my lil' brother, yeah
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, yuh
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, hold on
It ain't my birthday but I got a lot of, hoe
It ain't my birthday, but I got a lot of cake, yuh
Chopper bullets eat yo' face
Jump off out that jet with that motherfucking cake
I shoot at your lil' brother, pussy nigga, let's get it straight
I air out anybody with this mini baby Drac'
His money green, my money blue
His money old, my money new
Oh shit, this hurt you?
I'm having more birds than a zoo
I'm having chop's knocking out opps and we shooting all at the crew
Big Draco, nigga, who is you?
Head shot, face shot, gang, don't fuck with my crew
I bet your nigga talk about it now
Come and get your bitch, your bitch, she sucking for money
Uh, I didn't hit your bitch, now this nigga said he gon' come
West Side Zone way, nigga, we gripping on a hundid round drum
Bullets breach your chest just like King Kong
And I drop out the top, and you know where I'm from
Draco, Westside, straight out the slum
Stop all that talking, lil' nigga, let's get this shit done
Got a opp at the gas station, know that they run
I couldn't even chase it, I cradled the car and I loaded my gun
West Side Zone, where Simpson? We shooting for fun
They send you a pound, it gon' be your time
Run away that white lil' nigga ain't get no refund, I'm selling 'em brick
Pussy little nigga, you know what the fuck is going on nigga
You thought we were done?
Dior backpack with a honey bun
Big mansion while I chill in the sun
Big Draco, bitch, I feel like the one
007, loaded golden gun, James Bond
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, yuh
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, hold on
It ain't my birthday, but I got a lot of, hoe
It ain't my birthday, but I got a lot of cake, yuh
I'm in the trap trying to get the bags out, huh-huh
Big chopper, robbing a nigga with no masks down, huh-huh
Niggas talking like they gon' blast off, huh-huh
Hundred bricks, hundred stacks, stashed in a new home
Uh, take that private jet and land on that New York
Who the fuck is these lil' niggas? I might shoot y'all
This drop top Lamb', yeah, the roof off
Red Bimmer on the low, huh
Draco (Soulja)
Soulja, murder gang
Look, woah
Free my lil' brother, yeah
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, yuh
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, hold on
It ain't my birthday but I got a lot of, hoe
It ain't my birthday, but I got a lot of cake, yuh
Chopper bullets eat yo' face
Jump off out that jet with that motherfucking cake
I shoot at your lil' brother, pussy nigga, let's get it straight
I air out anybody with this mini baby Drac'
His money green, my money blue
His money old, my money new
Oh shit, this hurt you?
I'm having more birds than a zoo
I'm having chop's knocking out opps and we shooting all at the crew
Big Draco, nigga, who is you?
Head shot, face shot, gang, don't fuck with my crew
I bet your nigga talk about it now
Come and get your bitch, your bitch, she sucking for money
Uh, I didn't hit your bitch, now this nigga said he gon' come
West Side Zone way, nigga, we gripping on a hundid round drum
Bullets breach your chest just like King Kong
And I drop out the top, and you know where I'm from
Draco, Westside, straight out the slum
Stop all that talking, lil' nigga, let's get this shit done
Got a opp at the gas station, know that they run
I couldn't even chase it, I cradled the car and I loaded my gun
West Side Zone, where Simpson? We shooting for fun
They send you a pound, it gon' be your time
Run away that white lil' nigga ain't get no refund, I'm selling 'em brick
Pussy little nigga, you know what the fuck is going on nigga
You thought we were done?
Dior backpack with a honey bun
Big mansion while I chill in the sun
Big Draco, bitch, I feel like the one
007, loaded golden gun, James Bond
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, yuh
Hold on, hold on, wait
These rat niggas hella fake, hold on
It ain't my birthday, but I got a lot of, hoe
It ain't my birthday, but I got a lot of cake, yuh
I'm in the trap trying to get the bags out, huh-huh
Big chopper, robbing a nigga with no masks down, huh-huh
Niggas talking like they gon' blast off, huh-huh
Hundred bricks, hundred stacks, stashed in a new home
Uh, take that private jet and land on that New York
Who the fuck is these lil' niggas? I might shoot y'all
This drop top Lamb', yeah, the roof off
Red Bimmer on the low, huh
Credits
Writer(s): Samuel Ritter
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
© 2024 All rights reserved. Rockol.com S.r.l. Website image policy
Rockol
- Rockol only uses images and photos made available for promotional purposes (“for press use”) by record companies, artist managements and p.r. agencies.
- Said images are used to exert a right to report and a finality of the criticism, in a degraded mode compliant to copyright laws, and exclusively inclosed in our own informative content.
- Only non-exclusive images addressed to newspaper use and, in general, copyright-free are accepted.
- Live photos are published when licensed by photographers whose copyright is quoted.
- Rockol is available to pay the right holder a fair fee should a published image’s author be unknown at the time of publishing.
Feedback
Please immediately report the presence of images possibly not compliant with the above cases so as to quickly verify an improper use: where confirmed, we would immediately proceed to their removal.