Mr. T

(álbum: Hitler On Steroids - 2017)

Brrr!
Ayo, ayo

Nike MAGs glow when I tip toe
Fuck you mean? I been dope
Half my shooters sniff coke
With no aim, we better get low
Tackma lettermans with a TEC in it
Feed fuck niggas rope, go put ya neck in it
Got my troops in off-white boots
Pulled up, I had my foot hanging out the coupe
Off white flannel looking like a lumberjack
With the.30 popping, you don't want none of that
Dsquared apron over these squares
Ronnie Fieg, I need size 9 in every pair
Do a nigga filthy for the right price
Dom Pérignon, the lobster and fried rice

One brick, one brick
All I need is one brick

Drive-bys out of Teslas
Scrape the pots for the extras
Bodies dropping on the regular
Run laps around these other rap niggas for fun
At Fashion week with the M1, y'all niggas bums
Killa designer, a serial killer
Niggas thought I was just rhyming iller
Then I pulled out the stick, run the jewels, run the money
You tried to run and hopped the fence
Tore is back up like junior nigga, filthy rich
Wash my sins with Ace
Allahu Akbar, this work is flake
I'ma be fly forever if the stove work
She sniffing so much molly, that bitch nose hurt
I was on the path, getting money on the ave
Fiends milly rock seeing that my work glass
If shit slow up, I'ma look prettier in the mask
The cracks in the chip bag, the MAC by the trash
The.45 look big on his forehead
Shot him more times, left that nigga more dead

One brick, one brick
All I need is one brick