Champagne Scriptures

Yo, fucking bitch
Yo, check it, listen
(La musica de Harry Fraud)
Uh, pistol popping, bitch bopping, I drop these jewels
I’m Cochran in trial, you a child in school
And I don’t give a fuck what you saying or what you doing
I don’t give a fuck if you praying or if you looting
You can have the gun in your hand, but you ain’t shooting
Fucking faggot
Much respect to my niggas
Rip a pair of Nikes, cut a check for my niggas
Uhh, the gun on my side like a good mom
Bitch I pull up to the hood in a good new car
Chase the gin with the ale, that’s ginger ale
Tanqueray and Heineken, I’m high again
Pretty Dominican bitches with rapsy voices
Say facts to everything when I rap, facts
Pussy nigga
And I don’t give a fuck what you saying (yeah)
Meyhem, (?)
You funky bitch you (uh huh)
Holla at me when you see me, nigga
What up? Woooo!!!
Suede overcoat, champagne scriptures
Life fixtures that ignite pictures, my life whispers
Success, but stress is still present
Like the presence of a pleasant when he begging
I disassociate with niggas who associate
With clown niggas who be fronting like they holding weight
When things fall apart they was usually never together
Queens in this bitch, I’ll be rocking leather forever
3 quarter waist length or the trench
Out the coupe, on the stoop, off the bench
Really I’m live, I’m trying to live
Fuck trying to survive, it’s a big different
Started selling coke, now I got white privilege
Crunch math, get the right digits
My life pivots, like I’m posted in the paint with possession
Only moving in a forward direction
Anyone can get it if it’s hammer time
Pop ya block, hit the stage at the Hammerstein
Right after, it’s nothing, it never happened
Soft niggas smell like fish then get blackened, Laurenovich
Back to that fly shit
It’s all Queens everything
Motherfucking Hologram
Strip hug a knot, shout out to all my niggas
Will, Dave, D Stacks
R-O-B, T Money, what up?
We out here swerving, yo Dirty what up?