Scorey - OMG lyrics

(Hey, what's good, Trou?) uh, uh

They like, "Oh my God, look at his wrist
Brand new Cartier
That shit cost him twenty-six"
And she ain't my type, nah, still hit
Shittin' on my haters like
My stomach feel sick
They like, "Oh my god, when will he quit?
He been chasing paper
One day he'll be real rich"
They like, "Oh my God, he still lit
He play for the Raiders way he in the field
Bitch"

Been gifted since a toddler, I'm drippin'
Call the doctor love sippin' on that Wocka
On the strip with all my shottas
Label buildings talkin' proper
Keep stick like Harry Potter
For real, we bury oppers, he
Get shells like Larry Lobster, uh
Liu Kang, kick it in that Mulsanne
We made him a new strain
Jordan in the Flu game, ballin'
Call me Bruce Wayne
Pull up in that coupe thang
Make her wanna lose brain
She ate me like I was on the food chain
Finished, sike, nah, I could never quit
He thought he was funny, forty rock him
Will Smith
And you thought he was hard? He a real bitch
We like NLMB 'cause we really kill shit

They like, "Oh my God, look at his wrist
Brand new Cartier
That shit cost him twenty-six"
And she ain't my type, nah, still hit
Shittin' on my haters like
My stomach feel sick
They like, "Oh my god, when will he quit?
He been chasing paper
One day he'll be real rich"
They like, "Oh my God, he still lit
He play for the Raiders way he in the field
Bitch"

Like who is he? I don't know him
He tempt me, I'ma show him
Heard he keep glizzy on him and
Put lean in every soda
Uh, he be heavy smokin' and
He be desi blowin'
We blick, he belly rollin', tryna
Leave his buddy soakin', uh
Cash flow, treat her like a asshole
I stay with a fat roll
Keep on running past go, money on him
Maxo, he love lettin' Gats blow
He hot like Tabasco
Hop right out the back and put twenty on him

They like, "Oh my God, look at his wrist
Brand new Cartier
That shit cost him twenty-six"
And she ain't my type, nah, still hit
Shittin' on my haters like
My stomach feel sick

They like, "Oh my God, look at his wrist
Brand new Cartier
That shit cost him twenty-six"
And she ain't my type, nah, still hit
Shittin' on my haters like
My stomach feel sick
They like, "Oh my god, when will he quit?
He been chasing paper
One day he'll be real rich"
They like, "Oh my God, he still lit
He play for the Raiders way he in the field
Bitch"