Lunar C, SHOTTY HORROH, Tony D - Oil Painting lyrics

Raw dog, cock up in your main bitch (yeah)
Went to the clinic
And tested positive for greatness (Aw, yeah)
And not to be a racist
No, but fuck you if you ain't
Got me on your playlist
You white bastard (Ha)
Car swerving at innocent bystanders
'Cause, I'm arguing with someone on
FaceTime in sign language
Cheng up in my nostril 'til I
End up in a hostel
Background's grimy like I took a
Selfie in a brothel (yeah)
Mind of a true hustler
Eyes covered with slices of cucumber (What?)
Don't call my phone, I got a new number
(Don't call my fuckin' phone)
No rapper friends
Tryna gеt high with my two brothers (yeah)
Ring announcing like Michaеl and Bruce Buffer
(Fighters)
Talk shit? You gotta take the beating
You man are dying on your
Asses like anal bleaching (Ha)
Tryna get to Mexico for Cinco de Mayo
Click the OnlyFans link in the bio sound

Stash the money in the wall
Right behind an oil painting of me
(Painting of me)
And I don't chase pussy anymore
No bitch, you belong to the streets
(You belong to the streets)
Shit is grimy, mind in the gutter (yeah)
Too cold like a British summer
(Too fucking cold)
I need that fire, had to hit HashFinger up
I'm sick of these deadbeats
Like a single mother (yeah)

Face the crowd and exhale a cloud
And the ladies loud
Then in Edwin, Huaraches with the laces out
It's bad news, let me break it down
Boy, I'm in my bag and I'll bring
It to your door like paper rounds
Red tops, headshot like media handed
'Cause, I'm extra, extra, read all about it
Punchlines to clever flows
You want rhymes? They send for Ton'
The poster boy
Staple feature like centerfolds
The writing hand punches uncontrollably
Script writ or hit ribs and break
A couple up like adultery
Same old Tony D (Uncle Ton')
That Lowkey reveal that this style
Is still present as poetry real shit
Lockdown protester on some real shit
'Cause, I got to work and
Found out I'm still sick
My legend span forever, man
My name got a ring to it like a wedding band
Yeah, it's Uncle Ton'

Stash the money in the wall
Right behind an oil painting of me
(Painting of me)
And I don't chase pussy anymore
No bitch, you belong to the streets
(You belong to the streets)
Shit is grimy, mind in the gutter (yeah)
Too cold like a British summer
(Too fucking cold)
I need that fire, had to hit HashFinger up
I'm sick of these deadbeats
Like a single mother (yeah)

Wait, who's that? Twinnin', twinnin', 2Pac
More hardcore than New Jack (Ayy)
Two straps in the new jack'
Bazooka on the roof rack (Boom)
If I used that
The Gulag won't bring you back (Ayy)
Murder anyone who raps (yeah)
Boom bap or they do trap
Tony, Lunar, and Rooney would ruin anyone
True that (True, true)
Them Louisville sluggers are on us
You don't wanna do that (Nah)
You can eat a few bats
(Ayy) like you'd been to Wuhan (Huh)
Yeah, squad shit, too gang (Gang, gang, gang)
Big strap, fire in my two hands like Liu Kang
(Boom boom) fuck that, I don't need to bang
I'm a new man i'm the bag now
I just pass a man a few grand (yeah)
Yeah, hit the party straight
From the car chase (Car chase)
Police lights flashin' like a arcade
(Whoop, whopp)
Footsteps near me make my heart race
I'm tryna dance
But I'm carryin' a sharp blade
(Ayy, ayy, ayy)

Stash the money in the wall
Right behind an oil painting of me
(Painting of me)
And I don't chase pussy anymore
No bitch, you belong to the streets
(You belong to the streets)
Shit is grimy, mind in the gutter (yeah)
Too cold like a British summer
(Too fucking cold)
I need that fire, had to hit HashFinger up
I'm sick of these deadbeats
Like a single mother (yeah)