Yeah
Banks
COTI

Yo
Hunnid dollar bills for sit-up drills, my benji' reps
Ignorant, and I don't give two fucks with Fendi F's
Learnin' by habit, consistency made the memory stretch
Turn you to an addict, your lady'll kiss the Bentley chest
Dig your way out the ground or spend a century stressed
I'll get you stomped off senority, shouldn't tempt the vets
Uh, playa haters make my temper flex
Twenty years of pushin' this pen, an instrumental threat
Death to haters, can't even be heer in spirit
Kill a nigga, set up his GoFundMe and steal it
Designer chronic, pockets reekin' out the air vent
I can show you where to buy this shit, can't teach you how to wear it
It's a waste goin' back and forth, success will really kill 'em
Ballin' like Russell Westbrook, Bill or Wilson
Give me rappers, I'ma kill some, mumblers on my jacket
Drop the remains in traffic, club him like I'm barbaric
Star addicts

Nothin' is the same
These niggas don't deserve to rock, run 'em out the game
They love it when we serve the block, this is cocaine
The temperature is fallin' and this shit ain't gon' change
Nigga drive safely, swervin' out of lane
The pain is strong enough to make a nigga go insane
We just want the money, y'all can have the fame
Promise I'll remain, put it on my chain, propane

Uh, dumb is justification, is it workin', does it keep it fast?
Everybody just can't be hatin', my nigga you just trash
Ass kissers droppin' to knees, you need the Ewing pads
I ain't seen you niggas since teens, still hope you doin' bad
Country of the Serpant, y'all all in bed with the snake
Black fitted reads, "When Was America Great?"
In the bootleg era, left competition dead on a tape
Kryptonite to super save a hoe, infrared on your cape
Shit, I'm lyin'? Get me amputated, cradled to the casket, homie
Nothin' 'bout me animated, I only use the cash emoji
Everybody make mistakes, let nothin' out the past control me
Married to the motherfuckin' game, frozen matrimony
Hate when they compare me to niggas, never been even, son
Hammer to a hand grenade, cannon to a BB-Gun
Pussy talkin' slick about me, who you think was feedin' them?
I pull up on you all four quarters, let the meter run

Nothin' is the same
These niggas don't deserve to rock, run 'em out the game
They love it when we serve the block, this is cocaine
The temperature is fallin' and this shit ain't gon' change
Nigga drive safely, swervin' out of lane
The pain is strong enough to make a nigga go insane
We just want the money, y'all can have the fame
Promise I'll remain, put it my chain, propane

Copyright: Songtrust Ave
Writer(s): Christopher Lloyd