Benny the Butcher, Hall, Nash - Lex Luger lyrics

Yeah, BRRR you know what's up nigga
Machine bitch, Daringer
We back at it again boy
You know this shit easy to us
Griselda (Griselda) we gettin' money nigga

Look, my neck on Slick Rick
Bitch yeah I'm the ruler
Watch is bluer rock the Muller watch
That I just copped from jewelers
But I come from the bottom
I'm straight up out the sewer
Drug dealer, chopper shooter
Pot consumer I been through a lot
I'm just a cognac drinking nigga
A Glock user top remover, and yes
That baby Tec it got the cooler (brr)
Them hollow tips, they get to popping thru ya
Take my shooters out to eat
The waitress bringing lobsters to us
Like I said, fuck your covers and your list
Long as that Rollie bust down
Looking disgusting on my wrist
Plus I'm lugging the fifth out
In public with the blick' my shooter close
He can't wait to start bugging with the stick
Might catch me in LA
Smoking Dutch's with my bitch
Came a long way from trap
Kitchens fluffing up a brick look at me now
I bet them other suckers
Sick to their stomach
They see me popping, they wanna
Cut they fucking wrist, damn
Pardon me, this moon rock's got me coughing
I'm with a bitch that I
Just knocked from Boston
She gon' top me off and then
An Uber drop her off and then
I'm back to chopping raw shit
You pussy niggas cop us off
Aim this 30, pop ya at your top, then
I'ma knock it off with
Everything I drops the hardest
That's how I knew I was gon' pop regardless
Bars like the shit outta
The chopper cartridge
Scope aim and beam on it, and
I just spot my target, machine

The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex
The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs
Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga
Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga
The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex
The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs
Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga
Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga

Ayo, rockin the ferragam' fifth drop, yo
Been baggin all night in my bitch spot yo
Look at the crystals my fist got yo
I whipped that shit til that shit block yo
Ten millimeter in the Simon Miller
Rhymes is iller
Your life's real but mines realer
In the attic a
Hundred pounds in a vacuum sealer
Perignon spiller, Oscar de la Renta
Jewels heavy, it's the most incredible
Grease stains Timb boots up in federal
Black ski mask in your bushes
PO want shit, all he wanna do is cook us
Yola on the Foreman got me looking gorgeous
Just left the lot with my bitch
We copped twin Porsches
Just left the lot with my bitch
We copped twin Porsches

Yo, uh i used to run my block with
Fiends with hundred shot machines
Could've got degrees but ended up
In Comstock in green
The kicks fake, but the top Supreme
We went on shopping sprees, and
He ain't want shit, just a Glock to squeeze
Spraying tools off
While I'm shaving through raw
I cook my first half in a baby food jar
The fiends kept calling
It was taking too long
Now, I bag a whole block
Off a plate that's too small
Yo, a couple zips don't make you a hustler
They go from 10 to 30 bands
When they make it through customs
Catch me racing through in a laser blue Tesla
With Griselda on the plates
Hundred K in the duffel
Scary shit, the boogeyman carry sticks
The plug said he's 'bout to touch down
Like Larry Fitz
Rappers saying they gon' shoot that
Up and bury this
Tell his mama go identify him
By a pair of kicks

The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex
The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs
Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga
Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga
The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex
The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs
Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga
Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga