WHACKED (feat. Sandman)
Pop, I just hit your top, and you dropped cause you an opp
Who? Yeah, me and you
Huh? You just got shot with the fucking gun
And we gon' send you to the fucking sun
I'ma sip some purple out the cup
Slurp it, yeah, I'ma light the blunt
Lighters fucking purple, and I'm gonna hurt ya, and you know that you gonna go with the flow
Cause you just don't wanna know, you just wanna really go
But, your shoes, yes they glow
Bro, you got the Skechers on, what are you doing
But, you know, you just gotta keep on doing what you do, because you don't really have a fucking clue
Cause you're wearing your designer Nike shoes, and your designer pants, and your designer jacket
Maybe even a designer hat, and I am gonna say that shit wasn't capped
On my own I stack, all these motherfucking racks
Pull up on your block, and I'm in the fucking cat
And I spin up on you, get shot, spin that fucking back
Hit you in your top, yeah, you just got whacked
I'ma count the stacks, stack up all the racks
And I hit you in your face, in your back
Yes, motherfucker, you were waiting for the bruising
So you cannot chillax and keep on all that cruising
Cause I got my baseball bat, right attached to my back
Pull up in all black, and I got the sack
And you fumbled that, man, that shit is wack
And that made me laugh, like, ha, ha, ha
Your shit is ass, man, burn that fucking track
And I popped the perc, and I didn't relapse
I just relaxed, and I hit this gas, cause I'm going smack, of course
And you know I don't trust no whores, bitch, you is a whore
Who? Yeah, me and you
Huh? You just got shot with the fucking gun
And we gon' send you to the fucking sun
I'ma sip some purple out the cup
Slurp it, yeah, I'ma light the blunt
Lighters fucking purple, and I'm gonna hurt ya, and you know that you gonna go with the flow
Cause you just don't wanna know, you just wanna really go
But, your shoes, yes they glow
Bro, you got the Skechers on, what are you doing
But, you know, you just gotta keep on doing what you do, because you don't really have a fucking clue
Cause you're wearing your designer Nike shoes, and your designer pants, and your designer jacket
Maybe even a designer hat, and I am gonna say that shit wasn't capped
On my own I stack, all these motherfucking racks
Pull up on your block, and I'm in the fucking cat
And I spin up on you, get shot, spin that fucking back
Hit you in your top, yeah, you just got whacked
I'ma count the stacks, stack up all the racks
And I hit you in your face, in your back
Yes, motherfucker, you were waiting for the bruising
So you cannot chillax and keep on all that cruising
Cause I got my baseball bat, right attached to my back
Pull up in all black, and I got the sack
And you fumbled that, man, that shit is wack
And that made me laugh, like, ha, ha, ha
Your shit is ass, man, burn that fucking track
And I popped the perc, and I didn't relapse
I just relaxed, and I hit this gas, cause I'm going smack, of course
And you know I don't trust no whores, bitch, you is a whore
Credits
Writer(s): Wyatt Hicks
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.