Hit-Boy, DOM KENNEDY, Half-A-Mil - CORSA lyrics

Uh yeah

We don't jump clique to clique
Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids
They know what it is
Peel off Lambo tires skid doin' the most
Imagine you and me close i'm too ahead
All of that "homie shit" dead
Niggas can't call me their friends
Or call me their mans
Or call me their woe, these forties below
My heart is still colder, got it in Corsa
Revvin' the motor i'm gettin' change
They wanna see me slip through the crack
Shorty is into me, she let
Me crash, two-person party
We havin' a bash

What you think all this Julio for?
She told me, "Go lock up the studio doors"
She actin' up like it's the movie
Awards, for real, for real, for real
You gotta love a discreet freak
That's for real, for real, for real
Nigga, it's twenty on my receipts
That's for real, for real, for real
I just left out H Lorenzo in Maxfield
Tool on me, we still can't build
I be solo on the real
Smokin' personals of kill
I kept it 1k, that's how I'ma stay
She wearin' Saint but she not a saint
All ten down
That's how I was raised for all of my days

We don't jump clique to clique
Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids
They know what it is
Peel off Lambo tires skid doin' the most
Imagine you and me close i'm too ahead
All of that "homie shit" dead
Niggas can't call me their friends
Or call me their mans
Or call me their woe, these forties below
My heart is still colder, got it in Corsa
Revvin' the motor i'm gettin' change
They wanna see me slip through the crack
Shorty is into me, she let me crash
(yeah) , two-person party, we havin' a bash

Don't jump, clique to clique
Most these guys is counterfeit
I'm in the hood without a
Stick, you never know, might see some shit
She love me 'cause I don't cum quick
I'm local but still out the mix
This stripper bitch live by the Ritz
Talkin' slick gon' get you hit
I'm hood rich but I never
Trick, she fine but still, i won't commit
Spoiled hoes throwin' fit's
Want a nigga that pay their rent
I ain't like these rappers
All these trappers hustlin' backwards
All talk facts, bro, all you after
Is the fame and the pussy
That shit wack to us
Uh, I put that on my cousin
I been thuggin'
Two tires cost like sixteen hundred
My nigga died, I'm drivin' home
I'm sick to my stomach
But self-pity won't cut it, I tell 'em
"Up the budget"
Now niggas wanna own their masters
Y'all actors
I'm a factor, roll like tractors
Playin' Ginuwine… the Bachelor
If I want it, I could have her
And my Amex say I'm platinum
At the car wash with a bad one
Take a pic with me then tag 'em

Niggas can't call me their friends
Or call me their mans
Or call me their woadies
These forties below
My heart is still colder
I got it in sport, I'm revvin' the motor
I'm gettin' change
They want me to me slip through the crack
Baby is into me, she let
Me crash, two-person party
We havin' a bash

We don't jump clique to clique
Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids
They know what it is
Peel off Lambo tires skid doin' the most
Imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead (I'm too ahead)
All of that "homie shit" dead (yeah)