Roswell

Roll with two clips, there's no need for explanation
Look over my shoulder, I don't got no patience
It's about eight-thirty, bitch you pull up three-eighty
(It's about eight-thirty, bitch you pull up three-eighty)
She keep on creeping, I'm never gonna catch some slack
I'm dodging the men in black
Fucking alien, I wipe my tracks
She miss me, I'm not coming back
I light my blunt and write a track
And float off, I don't know where I'm at

She keep on creeping
Brain keep leaking on these tracks
Tryna put my family on my back
I might never hit the sack, no

And that eighth done fuck with my head
I was coming out of Roswell thinking god was not dead
Going the speed limit because I don't fuck with no fed
Gas tank on low, put your head up for bread
Came for head, got the whole damn face
Only came for a steak, got the whole deli
Bougee tree got that lace
If you need a quote, please don't hit up my celly

Bitches doing molly, Molly doing coke
Molly is the one who help me get it by the boat
Don't give her your home address
Even if you getting pussy, bro
More to it than a backward cowgirl
Clearly you've never had a bad bitch before
Type of girl got you on one knee for
I'm winning, I don't keep score
Not a game either, fucking cold war
Showed them the doors, seeing no more
Give back that Dior, hoe