Bfb Da Packman - Bob and Weave lyrics

[Intro: BFB Da Packman] Okay, let's, let's go, le— I just wanna speak like some, some real life facts, you know what I mean? Some sh*t I've just been dealin' with But let's go, look (Blaccmass) (BNYX) [Verse 1: BFB Da Packman] Out here you gotta bob and weave I knew I was poppin' when a opp said he proud of me My girl fu*ked another ni**a while we was in love That's why I don't believe a b*tch when she say she down for me [Verse 2: Zack Fox & BFB Da Packman] Out here you gotta stick and move Even as a baby, I was makin' plays in the womb I sent a women's basketball playеr hella nudes I don't give a fu*k if it was Spirit, b*tch, I got flеwed (Yello) [Verse 3: BFB Da Packman] It's your dream collab, BFB and Zack Fox I'm fat funny built, so don't ask me why my crack out (Yello) She want Ocean Prime, but I took the b*tch to Black Rock My uncle mistreated me, that ni**a smokin' crack now When it come to STD's, woo, I'm the mascot (Yello) I'm off four honey packs, dick harder than a math problem On Emmett Till grave, it's February, 'bout to act out For twenty-eight days, have white women su*k my black co*k (The Lunch Crew Company) Man, your pockets brittle Santorini, Greece sneaky link, me and Karen Civil (Yello) Don't wear condoms, truth be told, I can't even fit them If Lizzo sold her coochie juice, ah, I wanna buy a swiggle I need a helping hand My brother stole my laptop, he back to smokin' meth again I got a young b*tch, she's Soo Yung and I'm Jackie Chan She gotta bubble bath me 'fore we fu*k, b*tch, I'm Method Man [Verse 4: Zack Fox] I'm the man around town, do your research I'll fu*k this money up 'til my meat hurt My ten toes so down they underneath Earth My neck's so cold, my nipples pokin' out my t-shirt (Woo) Don't let me in your house, I'll be done stole somethin' This weed I'm smokin' hella quiet like I rolled nothin' I tried to cook crack once with my slow cousin Burned my auntie kitchen down 'cause we left the stove runnin' (Yeah, we fu*ked up) I'll light a ni**a up like a hookah torch Got a gay shooter with a Ruger in his booty shorts I be hangin' with my opp's son makin' pillow forts His baby mama let me re-up with the child support ni**as talkin' gun sh*t, but ain't did no slidin' (Not a thing) I just fu*ked an old b*tch with rheumatoid arthritis (She was old) I don't fu*k with no loud ni**a, this OG silent I can dress my goddamn self, I don't need no stylist (Get the fu*k off me) I ain't fresh? What the hell you mean? ni**a, I could probably fu*k Rihanna in this L.L.Bean (Woo) Pockets full of them blues, b*tch, I'm B.B. King Forty in my shorts cuddled up with my ding-a-ling (My dick) ni**a try to make a move, throw them 'bows on 'em (Damn) I got a glitch on my wrist, b*tch, it froze on 'em (Damn) I treat my guns like my sons, I put clothes on 'em (Damn) b*tch, if it's up, it stay up like it's no bottom (Damn) I put my team on my back like a opossum (Damn) ni**as wanna fight, it ain't no problem (Damn) Hold your nuts like you Mike, wipe his nose off him (Damn) Do him like Joe Jackson, beat the right notes out him [Outro] (Blaccmass) (BNYX)