Top Songs By Trippie Redd
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Credits
PERFORMING ARTISTS
Trippie Redd
Vocals
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Hunter Roberts
Songwriter
Matt Bosley
Songwriter
Michael Lamar White II
Songwriter
Peter Jideonwo
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Hunter Roberts
Producer
Igor Mamet
Mixing Engineer
Matt Bosley
Producer
Bacon and Popcorn
Producer
Lyrics
(Bosley)
Gettin' to the paper, that's my passion
1400-800 Inc., we gettin' cash, bitch
Only like fuckin' on bitches fat asses
Call me the reaper, only smokin' on ashes
Fuckin' top tens, yeah, you know that I'ma bag it
Yeah, I'm fuckin' twin sisters, bitch, you know that they the baddest
Want it all to yourself but you know that I done had it
Wanna beat that pussy raw, dead, yeah, it's in a casket
I just bought Balenci' now I'm walkin' in the mansion
Boy, don't play with me, that switchy get to spittin' automatic
I don't give a fuck 'bout what you said, lil' hoe
If you talk down on the gang, you gonna beg, lil' hoe
I heard shawty tryna ride, get on the pegs, lil' hoe
Born in crime, homicide, leave you dead, lil' hoe
The world through my eyes is infrared, lil' hoe
The killers in the streets goin' fed, lil' hoe
Livin' in a world where everybody hella street
Everybody got a heat, everybody want beef
Everybody pussy, nigga, everybody sweet
Swear to God, you don't want no smoke with me
Yeah, it's the big bird, bitch, I got issues
It's the middle of the summer and my neck got a igloo
Barrel of the drum stare at you and it'll end you
I ain't sneeze but I'm blessed, wipe me down, I need a tissue
I'm Trippie, bitch, I'm slimed out
Iced out bitch with your girl on my dick
Iced out bitch with your girl on my tip
The opps want me but my Glock wanna kiss
Slow down, ridin' 'round
Four deep, every chopper got a hundred rounds
If I catch a opposition, I'ma have to take 'em down
Like the special opps, bitch, catch a opp and tango down (tango down)
I love money counters, bitch, I love the paper sound
Comin' from the trenches, when I'm in 'em, safe and sound
Used to love the beef, I love gettin' paper now
Don't use GPS, bitch, I'm on the paper route
Comin' from that place where it's hard to make it out
If it's smoke, want war, nigga, we could face it out
Got your bitch suckin' dick and I ain't into makin' out
If you scared, go to church, nigga, bring the devil out
Gettin' tired of you niggas, Michelin
Seein' all you niggas droppin' and nobody mention it
I just sold out twenty thousand people out in Michigan
I just made it out the hood, nigga, I ain't missin' it
Keep it player with these hoes, nigga, I don't miss a bitch
And you know I'm Big Redd, nigga, just like some licorice
I just bought a Rolls-Royce, don't that mean really rich?
Walk around with 1400 hoes on my damn dick
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody (achoo)
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody (achoo)
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody
Everybody sick, nigga, everybody
Writer(s): Igor Mamet, Peter Jideonwo, Michael Lamar White Ii, Hunter Roberts, Matt Bosley
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