Credits
PERFORMING ARTISTS
Chillinit
Performer
Huskii
Performer
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Blake Turnell
Composer
Ben Hayden
Composer
Cody Rounds
Composer
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Cxdy
Producer
Mickey Kojak
Mixing Engineer
Adam McLenea
Mastering Engineer
Lyrics
All the world will be your enemy
Prince with a thousand enemies
And whenever they catch you
They will kill you
But first, they must catch you
(Perfect, perfect)
Trust me
The weed we smoke is from Babylon
Hustle like Nick we keep the whole marathon
Going on the strip, the streets are gone, carry on
Long drive the packet of pot, alley drop five in the car
The speaker has got rappin' on
I'm in the front with the rack and the whole saddy is gone
Benny's in the back with supreme and Lacoste bally on
Check the stats, they much have the tally wrong
I been on the way, these rappers still had a nappy on
Sitting in the trap, they too busy having baccy bongs
Now they on the crack, gettin' naggy when they rapping songs
Pockets fat as action, Bronson check the track
And stake out the town where the packet's from
These industry cats, they all have me wrong
They tryna jack all my songs, they can stab me for 'em
We ain't ever breaking any codes, half of you are fakin' and it shows
Angel on my shoulder but I'm tainted, like there's somethin' in my bones
I get faded while I'm breaking up an O
All I wanna do is try and get away from roads
Me and chill are hustlin', we playing all these shows
We was making nothing while we blazing up the dro'
Trapping for a habit, that was making me a ghost
'Bout to get an 8 and put the plate up to my nose
Call me Johnny Depp, 'cause I been faded off the blow
Sesh and weed, protect for lead, we wreck the beat
Got 20gs in the basement of my home
Maybe I'ma go and get this money, me and Chillinit
We fillin' up a Louis bag and gave it to your hoe
I ain't gonna stop 'til my kids got a Rolex watch
And my ex bitch living on the coast
I be on a jet, no carry-on but if they wanna carry on
My hitter come and stick 'em in the throat
I just got a plain Jane, went and made it froze
Wrist chilly on a pilly getting litty on a boat
I still got a cypher cell, some white to sell
I don't know why I'm still out gettin' gritty on the road
When my kiddies got a home and I'm sitting on a gold mine
Every time we drop a track, shit is gonna blow
Wait
Still me and Benny up at the drug spot
Got a bottle of Henny under the glovebox
No patience, covering no faces, they call me stone mason
The way that a brudda cut rock
Fuck off, who wants it, wanna go to war?
You better get new options or watch it
My brudda we level, we do boss shit
And now we got to Cali and looking at new watches
Australia post, we move boxes and fly
Marijuana? Imported it through Compton
The checks never respect your crew's nonsense
Brudda get the cheddar for setting off huge mosh pits
It's straight tetris brudda, I'm where the block is
Whether you my brudda, we never ever gon' stop this
We never ever gon' stop this
Check
People they hate what we do
Start making paper, they change up on you
Pressure and stress, I'd be better off dead
Looking up at my coffin to change up the view
Raised in the units, my olders were users
I stay by myself when I'm making a move
If I make it off music I'm taking the crew
I ain't never went fake for no radio tunes (tunes, tunes, tunes)
Writer(s): Blake James Turnell, Benjamin Darcy Hayden, Cody H. Rounds
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com