Bitch, you got a lot of balls for a small no name
You're so lame, you claim you God, you Kanye on cocaine
Yo, you will not blow my mind bitch, I am not Cobane
Your dame is known for blowing sacks, we call her John Coltrane
You sling hashish in back streets, count cash off bitches ass cheeks
In backseats of flashy whips, you finna give pigs a bakchich
(Trash) you rap to get the mass to think you're nasty
But you're snitching on your own silly ass, you Brendan Dassey
And we ain't shook (why?) Because you ain't Suge (Knight)
Who would write about their crimes besides the fake crook (type?)
You like to pose with broads for a Facebook like
While I bang broads and can't recall what their face look like
I pipe your wifey like a (hoe), slap the bitch and chant (yolo)
I like her and tapped her twice like an Instagram photo
You can rip my damn polo, snatch my silver Han Cholo
But you can't hate on my game or diss a man's mojo
So, get angry if you want, kid, I won't get the damn popo
But don't lift your hands (bro), your fists they tend to land slow mo
I'm a skinny man but when mad I'll whip your fam (dolo)
Stomp my soles on your throat and stamp a Timberland logo
Word to the motherfucking tree on my Tim
Word to the motherfucking tree on my Tim
Word to the motherfucking tree on my Tim
Word to the motherfucking tree on my Tim
