Ridin' Wit The Blower

(álbum: The Weeklys, Vol. 1 - 2019)

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It's the Chuck Taylor trafficker that'll fuck your favorite rapper up
Paint on the truck is black as something made in Africa
Pulling up I'm fading half of ya
Guns'll made him back it up
Murder rate per capita
Increases when I clap at an
Actor that's fucking acting up
Y'all be on some beef shit
I be on some peace shit, some third eye G shit
Knowledge with the street shit, Chakra and the Chi shit
Ancient secrets with God's signature on the leaflet
Peep it, we keep the streets lit
From the home of the criminals in a different dimension where generals send the sentinels
Every sentence in sicko mode
Every lyric sticking a sickle in your mental while the instrumental giving your temple holes
Chinchilla dripping at shows look like I'm pimping hoes
Flipping chickens, my nigga, not tripping on no tickets sold
But that's the old me, I'm new and improved
I'm moving with rules, these dudes are confused
Used to swallow bottles while getting more boos than the Apollo crowd
Now I go sober, hit the booth, hit the fuse
I'm hiding from liquor stores
My spit'll cut up your vocals, it's liable to split your cords
My saliva is liquid swords, my rivals'll hit the floor
I'm riding in 64's
Classic as T La Rock on vinyl, this shit is yours
I'm climbing in different floors, kicking doors down
Judge tried to throw the book at me, I'm booking tours now
Winning in two courts, Allen I. up in Georgetown
It was the art of war when I took your whore down
Ray and Ghost shit, traphouse booming to Mars
Purple tape shit, but I'm only built for Cuban cigars
Main man, you bastards should stop fronting
Swap meet flannel on, fasten the top button
I dash when the cops coming, but I'm masked, and when we gon' start blasting
And stop running, get harassed and pop something, homie
Picking my vest up, thinking the pigs might pistol my chest up
With hollow tips ripping my flesh up
Giving giant holes to the next nigga la tesla
Fuck designer clothes, if I'm strapped, nigga, I'm dressed up
Throwing the West up, let 'em know I'm in the streets
Sick apostle spitting gospels over the illest beats
And false prophets, stop it, don't wanna hear you preach
Might have to blast the pastor, word to Killah Priest