b**h, you got a lot of balls for a small no name
You're so lame
You claim you God, you Kanye on c**aïne
Yo, you will not blow my mind b**h, I am not Cobane
Your dame is known for blowing sacks
We call her John Coltrane
You sling hashish in back streets
Count cash off b**hes a** cheeks
In backseats of flashy whips
You finna give pigs a bakchich... (Trash)
You rap to get the ma** to think you're nasty
But you're snitching on your own silly a**, you Brendan Da**ey
And we ain't shook, (Why?) because you ain't Suge (Knight)
Who would write about their crimes besides the fake crook (Type?)
You like to pose with broads for a facebook like
While I bang broads and can't recall what their face look like
I pipe your wifey like a (hoe), slap the b**h and chant (yolo)
I like her and tapped her twice like an instagram photo
You can rip my damn polo, snatch my silver Han Cholo
But you can't hate on my game or diss a man's mojo
So get angry if you want, kid, I won't get the damn popo
But don't lift your hands (bro)
Your fists they tend to land slow mo
I'm a Skinny man but when mad I'll whip your fam (dolo)
Stomp my soles on your throat and stamp a Timberland logo
Word to the motherf**ing tree on my Tim (x4)