Dead Artist

(album: Starshooter - 2021)

(Ayo Vin, that shit hard)

[ShooterGang Kony:]
South truth, bitch, I keep it
I been on the road fighting demons, parking lot bleeding
Hit him in his throat, that's what you call getting even
Niggas only listen to the kid when they need it
On any given Sunday, I'm Willie Beamen
I'll tag a nigga if he slide, Derek Jeter
I'll break a bitch, make her pay the whole meter
Suckers, all they rap about is weed, it get deeper
Let's talk about your dead homies, too much bread on me (Ayy, ayy)
Still blow my pole while the feds on me
I shoot guns, I'm a vet, you sold dope
Let this fully get to go, he gon' blow with no hope
I got camo on the coat Bathing
Say I'm coming home, I leave a bitch waiting
Might've took her from her man, but I ain't bitch saving
Saying I can't rap or don't shoot, that's a shit statement
Popping out stick hanging
I don't need one maintenance, my life fixed
If I sift, I got chicken, I could pour the whole brick
Lil Greg, that's my main mans, he can't miss
If he did, shit, I must already hit him in this bitch
Dressed in all red, I feel like John Marston
Caught a wallflower at the mall, now he a target
You ain't had a haircut in weeks, you look starving
I'll put a nigga on a tape with his artist

Ayy, bitch steady talking that shit
Man, I love it when a thooter get to talking like she rich
I'll put fully on you and switch whips
Water on my wrist, give a fuck about a bitch
Bro sell codeine, we need more lean
I come from the trenches with the dope fiends
You can see me balling from the nosebleeds
I could never trust no broke bitch I got, ho, please

Shooters get shot then rerocked (Yeah)
Really off the top, I'll put you on the stove with this pot (Ah)
I feel like a hypebeast, Supreme socks
And I let her bite the dick 'cause the bubble say a lot (Nigga)
Nigga diss me, he's a dead artist (Dead artist), uh
Listened to your raps, shit garbage (Shit trash)
Played another tape, still garbage (Garbage)
I'm the spark plug, wouldn't start until I started, uh
On the road
Call my nigga Tef like this nigga need 'bows
That wallflower over there, he need hoes
He gon' flip the whole party, he don't get none of those
I been on a hot streak, throwing four-fives like it's nothing
What he on? Thought a nigga said something
Tough guy over there, he ain't saying nothing
Play a nigga like percussion when his leg get to busting

Ayy, bitch steady talking that shit
Man, I love it when a thooter get to talking like she rich
I'll put fully on you and switch whips
Water on my wrist, give a fuck about a bitch
Bro sell codeine, we need more lean
I come from the trenches with the dope fiends
You can see me balling from the nosebleeds
I could never trust no broke bitch I got, ho, please

[BabyTron:]
Off-White sweater with the pads like I play rugby
Stop talking 'bout your bitch a dime, boy, her face ugly
Turtle Pie, hundred-dollar 'Wood, boy, this eighth funky
Riding in a Demon, next year, I'm gon' have Wraith money
Got a shooter in my gang, I think he think he Kony
Got bread like Hostess, thigh pad, I got a Twinkie on me
I'll fuck your lil' bitch off the wink emoji
White marble buffaloes, I damn near got a sink up on me
All that wave riding, we gon' sink your ship and sail off
Had to kick unky out the studio, my tails lost
Pretty lil' bitch, booty jiggle and her nails glossed
Five-twelve, two fifty-six, that's that mail talk
Five-oh, there they go, shit, I'm finna hit a left
Big stepper, big shitter, thousand-dollar Triple S
Shitty Boy, titty boy, Hutch got me finna flex
.300 Blackout split his chest, they'll rip his vest
From the Mitten to the West Coast, name ringing bells
Play with one of us, Taco Bell, make him eat a shell
Stop talking all that trap shit, you never seen a scale
Stop talking all that trap shit, you ain't seen a sale
Punch God, walking down the giffy aisle with a smile
Hitman one call away'll kill you with a dial
Sawed off the Off-White, I pulled up with a rifle
Fraud champ, I'm just riding 'round looking for the title
Ella Delle Donne, my bitches block shots
Aim it at his legs, watch him hopscotch
Bally 201s, these jammers top-notch
Let me see what's in that pop, boy, that is not drop
Zazas in the foreign, got it hotboxed
Riding 'round the world touring in a droptop
Baby Draco turn his hoodie to a croptop
Bitch, I got the ups, I can damn near touch the shot clock
Faygo Rock & Rye, deuce of Wockiana
Feel like Loc Dog, shit I'm finna do the Glockiana
Giannis in the clip, thirty-four, finna drop it on 'em
Black Hellcat, R.I.P. Chadwick, this not Wakanda
When you winning, they be dead silent
Fly as hell in these 'Miri jeans, I done went pilot
Free my babies in the feds fighting
It was hard to tell he was a ham, it wasn't no bread by him