[ Featuring Harry Fraud, Benny the Butcher ]
I know, I know
It doesn't, man, I'm from the trenches
I'm built like this
They all doubted me, said I couldn't do it
They all said I couldn't do it
Look at me now
(?)
Pound for pound, headshot, dead
Yeah
(La música de Harry Fraud)
Holy Christ and Jesus, Latter Day Saints, I caught a half a brickie
Climbin' up the ladder of success, I brought my latter with me
Double cup of purple so it's 'Rex in that lamb chop
Modern-day version of my grandpops with a flask of whiskey
Sprinkle that hashish on backs of white Runtz and black truffle
Eight Super Bowl rings on my hands look like some brass knuckles
Thirty-popper on your third eye, f*ck with my first lady
Stirred the pot, stirrin' stir fry, you know I'm stir-crazy
First eighty K, they tried to persuade me not to murk Davie
Got him out the way around the time I dropped my first Mercedes
Kitchen cabinet full of eight-ounce bottles like a Gerber Baby
Sittin' on a chirp of dog, shit look like a bird with rabies
Checkin' in on that red-eye flight, might have to check a bag
Checkin' out my room, trunk full of dope, follow that checkered cab
Nike checks on my Off-Whites, courtesy of Virgil
We ran the place so many times that by now, we don't need no rehearsal
Are we there yet? Still trappin' in the jungle
Still havin' motion, havin' real racks, rich and humble
Sale tapped, no rebuttal, fell back from the huddle
Blow fell on the door and felt like a jail cat when it crumbled
Yeah, now run and tell that to the bumbles
Rumble pack on the machete, four quarters in a O
And sixty-four in a 'bow, thirty-six a quarter crow
Brick of blow on forty-four, twelve packs in a bundle
It ain't no secret, I was really eatin', pashtun slingin' keys (that's me)
Good dope that's best served raw like Japanese cuisine (ah)
From my city to Detroit, well, we like Magic and Kareem
Body bags in that Pontiac, I took the 90 back with ease, yeah
Three shooters, one driver, we spinnin' carpools
Game ain't get it from law school, got it movin' blue, rippin' dog food (rippin' dog food)
I bought the coupe then I snatched the truck (snatched the truck)
They see me and add me up
I'ma have a hundred plus on when you dap me up (What's up with you?)
Yeah, and that's what's up (that's what's up), uh
Well, watch what I do this summer, that new Patek bust gon' cost like two caddy trucks (two caddy trucks)
I love to talk about it 'cause them bricks was a real thing (it was real)
'Cause the tape in them flakes shining Tiffany 'til green (ah)
It's a victory lap for hustlers (for hustlers) who literally had to suffer
I'm on rich nigga shit, now I sit in the back for comfort (check it)
I'm at the fence bettin' money, I told 'em that I want the under (give me the under)
I hit a good lick then married a hood chick like I'm Jumper (like I'm Jumper)
When they shit drop, they shit go from the studio to the dumpster (man, that shit trash)
I'm in my interviews, tellin' war stories on No Jumper, nigga
Ah
Still trappin' in the jungle
Still havin' motion, havin' real racks, rich and humble
Sale tapped, no rebuttal, fell back from the huddle
Blow fell on the door and felt like a jail cat when it crumbled
Yeah, now run and tell that to the bumbles
Rumble pack on the machete, four quarters in a O
And sixty-four in a 'bow, thirty-six a quarter crow
Brick of blow on forty-four, twelve packs in a bundle
Count up
Yeah, Bo Jack
My nigga bounced back like nothing, man
We made of titanium, nigga, f*ck you thought?
