8Ball, Trinidad James - No Room lyrics
[8Ball, Trinidad James - No Room lyrics]
I ain't got no room for
None of that bullshit
No room for none of you haters
No room for none of that fuck shit
No room for none of that
I ain't got no room for
None of that bullshit
No room for none of you haters
No room for none of that fuck shit
No room for none of you sucka's
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got room for all of that talking
You and all them hoes
Bitch nigga keep walking
You fucking up my flow
Mary Jane in my suite
You can smell it when I heat it
On that Hennessy straight
That shit make a nigga act ig'nant
Pop that pistol like a?, extra clips on deck
Gold in my mouth and, gold around my neck
Season up the track like
Fat back on your mama greens
Why I'm in your bitch face
Fat back in your bitch jeans
Bread, your conversation must contain it
If it doesn't then to me
You're just not entertaining
I'm in my old school, top down, music banging
Me and some hoes
Not a bunch of lames hanging
Y'all see my cover, start hating
I seen your bitch and start pimping
Need an 8 ball of that hard
Shit? My niggas get you straight
I'm from the A Town, we ride old school's
We coming out skating
I hit your bitch good, yeah that pussy hot
I was literally cumming out singing
Please forgive me my sins
Cause I see these haters again
In the front and side of my mirror
Trying to bring me down to them
Trying to bring me down to?
Turn back up on they ass
Like three hit's of that gas
Like three hit's of that gas
I went from the cheetah shirt, red slacks
To a couple dollars in my hand
To that cheetah thing, wearing twenty bands
In that motherfucking bag
I got motherfucking swag
This swag fuck your mama
You can talk shit if you want to
But hating not an option bitch
I ain't got no room for all of that playing
Money what we 'bout
Niggas better watch what they saying
That iron will come out
The one that's in my jeans
Good weed and bands of that bread
The key to what I pulled up in
Good weed and bands of that bread
Magnificent, fat boy he be ripping shit
Some people don't see the gift
Fat boy he don't give a shit
Talk it like I see it
My vision sometimes is distorted
Talking from my heart
Write it down and then record it
Ride to it and smoke, me and one of my hoes
She in stretch pants and heels and
Her fingers match her toes
Sprite of the DJ Screw, obstructing my view
Don't speak when I see ya'
That mean I don't fuck with you
None of that bullshit
No room for none of you haters
No room for none of that fuck shit
No room for none of that
I ain't got no room for
None of that bullshit
No room for none of you haters
No room for none of that fuck shit
No room for none of you sucka's
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got no room for none of that
I ain't got room for all of that talking
You and all them hoes
Bitch nigga keep walking
You fucking up my flow
Mary Jane in my suite
You can smell it when I heat it
On that Hennessy straight
That shit make a nigga act ig'nant
Pop that pistol like a?, extra clips on deck
Gold in my mouth and, gold around my neck
Season up the track like
Fat back on your mama greens
Why I'm in your bitch face
Fat back in your bitch jeans
Bread, your conversation must contain it
If it doesn't then to me
You're just not entertaining
I'm in my old school, top down, music banging
Me and some hoes
Not a bunch of lames hanging
Y'all see my cover, start hating
I seen your bitch and start pimping
Need an 8 ball of that hard
Shit? My niggas get you straight
I'm from the A Town, we ride old school's
We coming out skating
I hit your bitch good, yeah that pussy hot
I was literally cumming out singing
Please forgive me my sins
Cause I see these haters again
In the front and side of my mirror
Trying to bring me down to them
Trying to bring me down to?
Turn back up on they ass
Like three hit's of that gas
Like three hit's of that gas
I went from the cheetah shirt, red slacks
To a couple dollars in my hand
To that cheetah thing, wearing twenty bands
In that motherfucking bag
I got motherfucking swag
This swag fuck your mama
You can talk shit if you want to
But hating not an option bitch
I ain't got no room for all of that playing
Money what we 'bout
Niggas better watch what they saying
That iron will come out
The one that's in my jeans
Good weed and bands of that bread
The key to what I pulled up in
Good weed and bands of that bread
Magnificent, fat boy he be ripping shit
Some people don't see the gift
Fat boy he don't give a shit
Talk it like I see it
My vision sometimes is distorted
Talking from my heart
Write it down and then record it
Ride to it and smoke, me and one of my hoes
She in stretch pants and heels and
Her fingers match her toes
Sprite of the DJ Screw, obstructing my view
Don't speak when I see ya'
That mean I don't fuck with you