Conway - Rex Ryan lyrics

[Intro - Excerpt from Paid in Full] A n***a like me man, I love the game, I love the hustle man I be feeling like one of them ball player n***as you know Like Bird, Magic or something Yeah you know a n***a got dough A n***a can leave the league But if I leave… the fans still gone love me man? I get love out here in harlem man I done sold coke on these streets man hash weed, h**ne As long as n***as is feeling it A n***a like me could hustle it [Verse 1 - Conway] The yak in my cup, the MAC is tucked, what I'm sticky yo back the f** up I keep the blinky since Them n***as clapped my truck up The wax had me gagging after one puff I remember bagging drums up Now it's a half of one stuffed in the trunk I stack my funds up Call my savage and have his gun bust Then they find you wrapped in plastic a dumptruck f**, only [?] I pull up with a b**h, they think it was Rita Ora My lil' headbuster keep his tool ringing off Got two bodies this summer He said he needs some more Highest grade marijuana Directly from the farmer My enemies is all goners Guess it was karma Trauma, four keys in your baby mom's Elantra Big a** gun like something out of Contra Don't make me spray a n***a Bodies drop if I ok it n***a You know how I play it n***a Red October Ye' a n***a Loud moving slow I had to yay it n***a Still ill when I write it When they don't name me top five I feel slighted n***as be talking but when I'm around they real quiet You can pray to jesus all you want You still dying, motherf**er [Verse 2 - Westside Gunn] Ayo, this the second coming of christ [?] like a flight Check your MAC on sight All red Geiger's on, stomp you to d**h Yeah you got designers but you rocking it left Need a new plug, prices getting outrageous Shot the thirty off, my n***a wasn't even aiming Pink lemonade Porsche Cayman Low Margiela's looking like a n***a painting Patience a virtue, my yard kids will murk you Ink on the Balmain blazer and the shirt too Shotgun like painting The flygod but the all red Yeezy boot's satan Eyes out, gloves on weighing Cameras on [?] like Paul Wall Life's so great they say a n***a sold his soul Praying Rex get us a Super Bowl Bust out the gate The wrist froze from flipping O's [Verse 3 - Roc Marciano] You know the rules Let the j**els go smooth They never should have Sold you dudes Pro Tools These old dudes let the hoes choose n***a your shoes is overused I hear the fat lady singing That b**h can hold a tune It's been said I'm god in the flesh I had to show and prove My sneakers is literally from Italy Leaned on the cane Thought it was muscular dystrophy A hundred shots your Hilfiger look like a frica**ee Who you think you Mr. T? Mitch Green? Or the new Richard Roundtree? (Please) You found in Queens With your sh** twisted like it was ground beef A few n***as in town grieved Variegated paint on the i8 Obviously you see that I ate Don't think I'm like these other rap n***as Cos I ain't You got pie on your face Denim and supply is for flyweights You can't buy taste, we looking at you sideways