of my rope hanging on your every word i'm finally getting the hang of getting hung up on girls like you don't let me let you go don't leave me here all
my rope hanging on your every word i'm finally getting the hang of getting hung up on girls like you don't let me let you go don't leave me here all
Traduction: Hit The Lights. All Or Nothing.
to make this animal stop Who these niggas trying to take down Break down, tray pound, eight rounds He ain't feeling nothing from the waist down Hit up
m tryna get my cash right All my niggaz flip birds and blast pipes, addicted to the fast life Live everyday like my last night; OD'in or X When I got
nevermind I'm lyin she bumpin me all day Honey is always the one Imma call late night I need that she comin here right away night or day she need me hit it or
remember stressing so hard, I couldn't keep my focus My only love was for extras, and overs Fuck all you niggaz, don't make me slap the fuck out all
don't love pussy, I just love to murder these niggaz when they walk up on me Y'all don't know me, some of y'all rappers think y'all know me This nigga
women (Cause I hit 'em with the mule) Going to deep when I be diggin up in them bumping up against they kidneys when I stick them (Cause I hit 'em
hurting my highsing Nigga I'm still rising, while you coniving You ain't shining, but bitch I shine like a light All day all night, whether gun fight or
corrupting our kidneys All that codeine, weed and drugs I'm leaning over, but still a soldier Pimp my pen, like I'm suppose to Nothing but the finest, light
Steady trying to come out the storm From hurricanes, to heaven and lighter rain Running away from the police Nigga fuck peace, its all about war Nothing
the way to see your balls Too down, too dirty, I'm all that shit Don't get caught in this movie when my mind start to trip It's a hit, hit by Mr. Crooked
(*talking*) What, in this bitch fucking with Z-Ro Motherfucking Mo City Don bitch Yeah, I know y'all hate the way we stare at y'all face [Z-Ro] Rap game
my dad, drops and blue over gray rag Until I make a million or more, I'ma smoke and lean And stack my green, until a player hit the floor Waking up calling
dribble Bits and Kibbles, got 'em all after the pickle I swing it like a bat, but these balls are not whiffle Hit 'em in triples, wit no strikes, stripes, or
