Playball
A.M.P
This is a certified hood classic
Wes, step on they necks
Damn son, where'd you find this
I started off with a P
Now I made pay with the A trey treys and I just had some, say five, two, three
And I thought she was gay cause every other day she'd buy from me
Phone ring, that's a jug, I'm in a stu, had to tell him stop the beat
Christmas, yeah, they stay on trees
Thought she midgets, stay on knees
My girl worry about me trappin' cause I do time if they OD
Ask about me, I get to it
Forty hit ya, that's Ray Lewis
That shit stink, Roll me a Wood
Pack smell like embalming fluid
Sack on me, no Michael Parsons
I'm so fly, I need a harness
I dress up and far from rich, but really these expensive garments
They know I be on the grind, but I still serve you, I make time
Bought up paint for six, made my money back only sold three lines
Damn son, son, damn son, damn son, where'd you find this
My shoulders hurting, I'm so next up
Two sticks on me, coi leray and pressa
I done got my bread up, yeah, bruh, Panera
The clip like a comma and these bullets like etcetera
Brr, brr, phone ringing, Brody, I'm at work
I'm finna go on break, that's when I can sell you these perks
I know some people with money, but still don't know they worth
And I've been broke before, so I can't tell you what's worse
I took a lot of losses, okay, that was then though
Like I'm looking out of some, nah, I just window
Knew how this was gon' go when my big bra called me big bro
Nah, he can't swim, but whatever he keep fin though
Had to cut some ears off, what I mean they not here
I'm so high, I might cry, it's cause I'm top tier
I be trying to chill, keep it Gucci, Keisha, Kayor
They know I bear arms, no Baylor
Keep the fire on me like a giant
Fee-fi-fo, can't nobody F with me
Lil' Boosie, I know like 5-0
I've been to star, and I had the power too
I is grade A, them the only things I vow to
Please stop rapping about some shit you not into
It ain't cool to be broke, got a job and still sell too
You ain't never been at the spot praying the mail get through
Trap dog, baby, I'm on my pitbull
This is a certified hood classic
Wes, step on they necks
Damn son, where'd you find this
I started off with a P
Now I made pay with the A trey treys and I just had some, say five, two, three
And I thought she was gay cause every other day she'd buy from me
Phone ring, that's a jug, I'm in a stu, had to tell him stop the beat
Christmas, yeah, they stay on trees
Thought she midgets, stay on knees
My girl worry about me trappin' cause I do time if they OD
Ask about me, I get to it
Forty hit ya, that's Ray Lewis
That shit stink, Roll me a Wood
Pack smell like embalming fluid
Sack on me, no Michael Parsons
I'm so fly, I need a harness
I dress up and far from rich, but really these expensive garments
They know I be on the grind, but I still serve you, I make time
Bought up paint for six, made my money back only sold three lines
Damn son, son, damn son, damn son, where'd you find this
My shoulders hurting, I'm so next up
Two sticks on me, coi leray and pressa
I done got my bread up, yeah, bruh, Panera
The clip like a comma and these bullets like etcetera
Brr, brr, phone ringing, Brody, I'm at work
I'm finna go on break, that's when I can sell you these perks
I know some people with money, but still don't know they worth
And I've been broke before, so I can't tell you what's worse
I took a lot of losses, okay, that was then though
Like I'm looking out of some, nah, I just window
Knew how this was gon' go when my big bra called me big bro
Nah, he can't swim, but whatever he keep fin though
Had to cut some ears off, what I mean they not here
I'm so high, I might cry, it's cause I'm top tier
I be trying to chill, keep it Gucci, Keisha, Kayor
They know I bear arms, no Baylor
Keep the fire on me like a giant
Fee-fi-fo, can't nobody F with me
Lil' Boosie, I know like 5-0
I've been to star, and I had the power too
I is grade A, them the only things I vow to
Please stop rapping about some shit you not into
It ain't cool to be broke, got a job and still sell too
You ain't never been at the spot praying the mail get through
Trap dog, baby, I'm on my pitbull
Credits
Writer(s): Joshua Davis
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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