Don't Make Me

(album: Butcher On Steroids - 2017)

Griselda...

Uhh, smoking to the face, that's the ways of a loner
Had shootouts, cops clean the blood stains with ammonia
Before I had a job, got paid from a corner
Lost a seed to a drive-by, a stray hit his daughter, uhh
My whole story, facts, how I blew 40 racks
And if I catch another case I get the mandatory max
Kick it with my jeweler, still sitting with a shooter
In case some niggas wanna try and put a ceiling on my future (nah)
I'm getting money now, sending bitches to Aruba
Investigators pulling up my pictures on computers
When friends start to switch in this business get confusing
Call the plug James Harden 'cause he dribbling in Houston
It go from him, my trunk, the kitchen to the users
Ate his last meal, he was sitting with a Judas
We was street niggas, did a little bit, improving
Still street niggas, we just making bid'ness men manoeuvres
Motherfucker!

Look, uhh
Real niggas verse fake, and we up one
And all these real niggas know the cloth that I'm cut from
Chanel bag leather strap laying across the shoulder
Sitting next to Raphael Saadiq at Bossanova
Cross me, you make your funeral arrangements
Hand out pictures to killers, give my shooters locations
Y'all niggas trip and be broke, y'all ain't used to no paper
That's why you trap and give that money back soon as you make it
Uhh, niggas pull up shooting cans from convertibles
Enough on your head, make your friends wanna murder you
Watch how I withstand the damage, endurable
Watch how they react when God grants you a miracle
Rappers drop once want you to hand 'em the title
I speak facts, I can rap with my hand on the Bible
Walk in my shoes, you gotta shake hands with your rivals
And get signed when the D.A. got plans to indict you, the shit real