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Credits
PERFORMING ARTISTS
EST Gee
Vocals
FOREVEROLLING
Programming
Marko Lenz
Programming
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
George Stone III
Songwriter
Jeffrey Lynn Jones
Songwriter
Mark Nikolaev
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
FOREVEROLLING
Producer
Marko Lenz
Producer
Eric Fernandez
Mixing Engineer
Johngotitt
Recording Engineer
Rich Keller
Mastering Engineer
Lyrics
Phew, phew, phew (FOREVERROLLING)
Yeah, yeah
Come take a trip down memory lane with a gravedigger
A made nigga, poppin' painkillers don't make me think different
I'm a drank sipper, I done slayed niggas, I done paid killers
Out the whip and out the window, long as you get 'em, ain't no difference
Shame is, the same niggas dissin' used to wan' hang with us
I ain't trippin', I been had a lot of opps, even more pistols
Bougie freak say she don't wan' eat 'cause I ain't say, no pickle
Put her on the nigga, she get that lo', we gon' for sure get him
Most get it, the small few of 'em that don't don't need no nose tissue
'Cause I'ma wipe it for him, he don't even know it, I'm so cold with it
She got sexy lips, when she eat dick, I call her soul stealer (mwah)
Cried, make her sad, said, I'll be back when it's a whole river
She give me a pass on how I act because her old nigga
Broke and down bad, sittin' on his ass, watchin' her go get it
Plus I used to serve her baby dad, you know I hit his bag
Bossed up, I bought all my whips with cash, it came with paper tags
Three kilos and one five hundred grams, all my cubans dance
Every brick I grab, you ain't my mans, I come for four and a half
Run off on your stupid ass next time if you don't lower the tab
Niggas ain't got money, got no swag, they can't make me crash
Let my brodie score, I threw the pass, he laid it off the glass
I done slimed his blood all on my grass, I hope you thinkin' fast
Pour of Wock' inside a big blue pop make it look like the Jazz
Thought that shit was good, but it was trash, get back to the lab
Bricklayer and I was made to last and never come in last
Act like you wan' test me, you gon' pass and I ain't talkin' class
Know I got that Gretzky, don't even ask, just come with the cash
I don't reminisce on what I had 'cause I'm still in my bag
Difference me and his is mine's Dior and yours is made from trash
Nigga sent the gangsters' text, I laugh, you know that that's his ass
He survived from hidin' under the wheel, he ain't dump his iron
Know I climbed from out that pile of shit, I had to take my time
Step and put some niggas on a shelf who wanted to see me die
Video, he up a stupid roll, camera off, he lie
Gotta shine 'cause I ain't used to have nothin' and that's the reason why
Homicide, another mama cried, son played with 55
Riata drive, whoever tryna collide, know it's suicide
Love is blind, so is my left eye, so fuck the other side
Writer(s): Jeffrey Lynn Jones Jr., Mark Nikolaev, William Eric Boyette, George A. Stone Iii
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