Country Mike

(álbum: Everybody Is F.O.O.D. 3 - 2019)

Yeah, uh
You know what's up, pussy
Uh

Watch froze, foreign that I drove, dodging potholes
Extendo clips and the Glocks, we got those
Versace my clothes, every time I answer my phone
That's like a block sold, you can say I got the block sewed
Grab two cubes of ice and drop those, the product in the pot rose
Eleven hundred my O's, it's residue on my stove (Talk to 'em)
Dior all on my toes, eleven hundred, rock those
Choppers, we pop those, damn
We ain't the same if you don't shoot your blick or use your stick
Don't try to hide, if we can't find you, we gon' shoot your bitch
Nail her to the crucifix, gruesome shit
I hate rappers, fuck you and that nigga that produced your shit
Machine

Lately I been getting a lot of hate, uh
Razor to the side of your face, you violate
Blue hundred dollar bills, sniffing coke on Versace plates
Think about all the commas I'ma make when I create
I come from the bottom wilding and hopping gates, uh
If you ain't got a body, you probably cannot relate, uh
Country Mike died in my face in '98
Gun was in the yard, not on my waist, that's my mistake, ah (Rest in peace, my nigga)
Yeah, I get hate from haters 'cause I'm making paper
Fuck them niggas, I did it my way and now my cake is major
Hit your face with razor, I slide with stick like I play for Sabres
We popping them sticks, fifty shot clips, that shit'll wake the neighbors
All these rappers stealing my lane I made up, I'm who they say is the savior
Tell these new niggas they can thank me later (Thank me later, nigga)
Boring, it's like you swimming in the lake with gators
Razor my plate up, chopping weight up, get your weight up, pussy