BabyTron, ShooterGang Kony - Dead Artist lyrics

(Ayo Vin, that shit hard)

South truth, bitch, I keep it
I been on the road fightin' demons
Parking lot bleedin' hit him in his throat
That's what you call gettin' even
Niggas only listen to the kid
When they need it
On any given Sunday, I'm Willie Beamen
I'll tag a nigga if he slide, Derek Jeter
I'll break a bitch
Make her pay the whole meter
Suckers, all they rap about is weed
It get deeper
Let's talk about your dead homies
Too much bread on me (Ayy, ayy)
Still blow my pole while the feds on me
I shoot guns, I'm a vet, you sold dope
Let this fully get to go
He gon' blow with no hope
I got camo on the coat Bathing
Say I'm comin' home
I leave a bitch waitin'
Might've took her from her man
But I ain't bitch savin'
Sayin' I can't rap or don't shoot
That's a shit statement
Poppin' out stick hangin'
I don't need one maintenance, my life fixed
If I sift, I got chicken
I could pour the whole brick
Lil Greg, that's my main mans
He can't miss if he did, shit
I must already hit him in this bitch
Dressed in all red, I feel like John Marston
Caught a wallflower at the mall
Now he a target
You ain't had a haircut in weeks
You look starvin'
I'll put a nigga on a tape with his artist

Ayy, bitch steady talkin' that shit
Man, I love it when a thooter
Get to talkin' like she rich
I'll put fully on you and switch whips
Water on my wrist, give a fuck about a bitch
Bro sell codeine, we need more lean
I come from the trenches with the dope fiends
You can see me ballin' from the nosebleeds
I could never trust no broke bitch I got, ho
Please

Shooters get shot then rerocked (yeah)
Really off the top
I'll put you on the stove with this pot
(Ah) i feel like a hypebeast, Supreme socks
And I let her bite the dick
'cause the bubble say a lot (Nigga)
Nigga diss me, he's a dead artist
(Dead artist) , uh
Listened to your raps, shit garbage
(Shit trash)
Played another tape, still garbage (Garbage)
I'm the spark plug, wouldn't
Start until I started, uh
On the road
Call my nigga Tef like this nigga need 'bows
That wallflower over there, he need hoes
He gon' flip the whole party
He don't get none of those
I been on a hot streak
Throwin' four-fives like it's nothin'
What he on? Thought a nigga said somethin'
Tough guy over there
He ain't sayin' nothin'
Play a nigga like percussion when
His leg get to bustin'

Ayy, bitch steady talkin' that shit
Man, I love it when a thooter
Get to talkin' like she rich
I'll put fully on you and switch whips
Water on my wrist, give a fuck about a bitch
Bro sell codeine, we need more lean
I come from the trenches with the dope fiends
You can see me ballin' from the nosebleeds
I could never trust no broke bitch I got, ho
Please

Off White sweater with the pads
Like I play rugby
Stop talkin' 'bout your bitch a dime, boy
Her face ugly
Turtle Pie, hundred dollar 'Wood, boy
This eighth funky
Ridin' in a Demon, next year
I'm gon' have Wraith money
Got a shooter in my gang
I think he think he Kony
Got bread like Hostess, thigh pad
I got a Twinkie on me
I'll fuck your lil' bitch
Off the wink emoji white marble buffaloes
I damn near got a sink up on me
All that wave riding
We gon' sink your ship and sail off
Had to kick unky out the studio
My tails lost pretty lil' bitch
Booty jiggle and her nails glossed
Five-twelve, two fifty-six
That's that mail talk
Five oh, there they go, shit
I'm finna hit a left
Big stepper, big shitter
Thousand dollar Triple S
Shitty Boy, titty boy
Hutch got me finna flex
300 Blackout split his chest
They'll rip his vest
From the Mitten to the West Coast
Name ringin' bells
Play with one of us, Taco Bell
Make him eat a shell
Stop talkin' all that trap shit
You never seen a scale
Stop talkin' all that trap shit
You ain't seen a sale punch God
Walkin' down the giffy aisle with a smile
Hitman one call away'll kill you with a dial
Sawed off the Off White
I pulled up with a rifle fraud champ
I'm just ridin' 'round lookin'
For the title
Ella Delle Donne, my bitches block shots
Aim it at his legs, watch him hopscotch
Bally 201s, these jammers top notch
Let me see what's in that pop, boy
That is not drop
Zazas in the foreign, got it hotboxed
Ridin' 'round the world tourin'
In a droptop
Baby Draco turn his hoodie to a croptop
Bitch, I got the ups
I can damn near touch the shot clock
Faygo Rock & Rye, deuce of Wockiana
Feel like Loc Dog
Shit I'm finna do the Glockiana
Giannis in the clip, thirty-four
Finna drop it on 'em
Black Hellcat, RIP chadwick, this not Wakanda
When you winnin', they be dead silent
Fly as hell in these 'Miri jeans
I done went pilot
Free my babies in the feds fightin'
It was hard to tell he was a ham
It wasn't no bread by him