Listen to No Hook (feat. P Money & Desperado) by Spooks

No Hook (feat. P Money & Desperado)

Spooks

Hip-Hop/Rap

Featured In

Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Spooks
Spooks
Performer
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Paris Moore–Williams
Paris Moore–Williams
Songwriter

Lyrics

Back when my bro had his ped He was flipping them Zs Flipping them packs on the back roads Flipping them packs on the mains These niggas wanna stunt and floss now Cuh they got roleys and chains Nigga wan' look good for the hood Nigga, get back in your lane Nigga, get back in your lane Nigga, get back in your lane My niggas get Ps in the light or the rain Don't do it for the fame, don't do it for the chains I just do it for my mates You do it for the papes I just do it for the cake, I just do it for my mates I ain't tryna move bait I ain't tryna move bait, I ain't tryna move bait None of you niggas can chat And none of you niggas got racks None of these niggas got packs And none of these niggas got cats None of these niggas got MACs So none of you scream, don't like None of you scream, don't like When you ain't got this and you ain't got that More time talk facts You said you got a MAC but no one got whack More time you'll rat Yeah, the flow's bait but I don't even rap So man tek time, I don't wanna hear that I don't wanna hear that Why you gotta lie in your raps? Just make a no about facts Don't, don't, don't talk about gats Just talk about playing Xbox in your flat When you're gripping that pad Holding down RT, dropping bodies on the map All, all these niggas just chat All these niggas just chat These niggas still trapping off Qs Trap star now cuh they got a gold tooth Re-upping on snaps, go re-up on food You're just a good yute I ain't crazy but niggas gotta move Go back to your bed, bring a bitch to your room But more time your bitch wants space So back to your bed and bill a fat zoot Reminisce on your tune Then holla at me when you're speaking the truth Ain't got time for these goons Me and my team, we're tryna make moves But your bitch moving loose Ucking on you or ucking on me She's ucking on Spooks She's ucking on Spooks, she's ucking on Spooks And if you're ucking with Spooks Tell dem my man'll send out the troops I said none of these breddas ain't hard And none of these breddas ain't real None of them breddas bust straps And none of their straps ain't steel I was checking out their stats And none of them breddas ain't killed They're talking like they're a chef And none of these breddas made meals None of these breddas are real None of these breddas are bad Right now I'm in a mad home And donny, I ain't even mad What do you mean, you're in a mad home? I mean that price for the yard, not a flat I'm talking mortgage, fam Hundreds of hundreds of racks Your clique's sad The flow's diarrhoea, blud, my shit's mad Cool with a barber that trims on point But when I spray man, I'm pulling my shit back Draw me in the field, that's penalties, fam Up front, Aguero, Man City bangs Black whip, click click, bang chitty bang Bare smartphones and bare silly man Gatecrash parties, ripping that MAC Might phone Despa, I might phone Agz Might hit an uncle, might hit a dad Might hit chest, might hit abs Tryna make a drink off me? Are you mad? I ain't having a bar cuh there ain't no tab Bro, I don't wanna hear that I don't wanna hear that, I don't wanna hear that I've got bad Bs And I'm strapped so stay in your lane I'll have man jump out the whip like the Mad Men You owe me money? Gonna feel my pain You see, none of these niggas ain't on shit None of these niggas ain't game Blacked out plane Shut shit down on the main Shut shit down, start raining I stay on the grind, fuck gazing I stay on the grind while you're raving I'm fucking up the pavement My name rings, I run out the pagans It's one of them things You've got a bag of cats and none of them rings 3.5, that's the litre It's my class, I'm the teacher I left with blood on my sneaker And in my pocket the beater, shit can get deeper Shit can get protest I leave man wasting with no chest, hope that you know best All of my goons got racks All of my goons got stacks, keep F-ing up tracks Gone are the days I'm defo not chilling in flats Stop talking your mouth like you're on stuff I'm feeding you to the wolves My name ring bells, got up from scales Like don't conversate with fools Come to the war prepared That's how you come with tools When we come, it's certi Gs And we don't follow no rules
Writer(s): Paris Moore-williams, Omari Mosi Woolley Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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