Yelawolf, DJ Muggs, Bub Styles — Flea Market

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Yeah, my plug owns a jerk chicken and roti spot
Right up over there on Church Ave
Every time I go over there
He be on some, «bodmon, bodmon
Why you never come visit me?»
I’m like, «dog, you know I’m out of town, dread
I’ma bring the ‘woods next time we in the city»
Cold cut, ghetto cowboy shit

Yo, my plug grew up in Flatbush but speakin’ like he Guyanese
(wagwan, wagwan)
Me and the cheese Siamese (attached)
Back before we had the scale, we was eyein’ Gs
Now they eyein’ Gs, tryna iron squeeze (pull up, hop out)
All this lyin’ speech, when I hear these liars preach
From a mile away, you can hear my tires screech (skrt)
Tree so loud, my sour speaks
If I get tried, these streets’ll never let that motherfucka die in peace
And I ain’t even leave my Italian sheets (15 hunnid thread count)
Her cheeks open, I apply the grease (clean that shit up, baby)
She told me she don’t wanna work no more (me neither)
Told her start the car, roll a ‘wood, and my dope is raw (whatever)
Brooklyn high-rise to the SoHo polo store, we on (get whatever the fuck you want)
Spendin’ every dollar ’til it’s all gone
Tote the game so long, I aim and shoot, forewarnin’
Even in my sleep, my thoughts joggin’
Y’all clockin’ time different like y’all talk foreign (the fuck is 22 o’clock?)
So po’ the Scotch up, I’m mollywhoppin’, drop a pump
And had the crowd poppin’ stunts since Wolf dropped «Pop the Trunk» (before that)
He ridin’ with the shotty and the Glock in tuck (ch-ch)
I’m just ridin’ with a pocket full of tropic fluff (exotic)
Different drugs until my sockets bust
Hustle ’til my Nikes crease
You copped the feats but you ain’t nothin’ like me, chief
You hypebeasts is rappin’ over too many tight beats, sheesh

Hallelujah from altitudes underneath my schooner
Step over tempos like broken glass underneath my Pumas
That’s crunch time, dump my bag into one line
Food for thought like I’m off and it’s lunch time
Swimmin’ with the sharks, she’s in linens in the dark
She’s attendin’ school, I’m pretendin’ cool, easy heart
One hand on the pen, that’s a pomade, two greasy parts
No slick back, but my ’57’s a breezy car
The window’s down, this CD’s hard, oops, I meant the bluetooth
Showin’ my age, huh, oops, I meant the Ginsu
Showin’ my blade, huh, oops, I meant to miss you
But I kissed you, swingin’ in the shade, cut you, like, in two
(You cut him in half) Pull a Dewey Cox
Hit every genre like the wax groove inside the vinyl box
The milkcrate, ‘Bama license plate
In Hollywood, rockin’ overalls until the mansion gates
Billy in there, a slumdog, really you square, up out my circle
We pyramid visionaries drinkin’ Perrier, crushed berries
Creek Water, feet up on the black yacht
«Barracuda,» Heart playin’ through the rusty boombox, I keep it G (Slum) I keep it G like there’s no other letter, A to Z
Don’t pay for features, don’t pay for features, keep it free
Dope, that’s the motherfuckin’ law
If I did it for money, I wouldn’t fuck with none of y’all
Just pay me in advance before I hit the stage, okay?
If you tell me that you broke, it’s hard for me to stay awake
Ain’t got no time to break you down like you do me up on the ‘gram
If you can’t see the God in I, your surface blind to who I am
The son is on his pilgrimage, I’m purgin’ Alabama’s cultural distance
By bein’ infinite, unbound, I’m limitless
Rhythm is not a gimmick, it’s rhythm inside my innocence
Givin’ my lines through penmanship, you should say I’m meant for this
Ain’t into what’s new, big, or critic picks
So fuck hipsters, hippos, and hypocrites
You ain’t fuckin’ with me then it’s off-target, you missin’ it
Like a nympho that’s impotent, like a symphony instrument
I’m the conductor, reconstruct the buildin’ and go live in it
Foundation of sentences, fountain of youth, I swim in it
Bouncin’ a hoopty tinted in with my shit on blast
Through tweeters, Pimp and shit, Underground Kings
I done earned a green beret with UGK
I done done a song with Wynonna Judd and Three 6 the same day
Fuck you mean?
Hats, leather, bolo, boots, I am the fuckin’ scene
The stars fell in my lap, that’s why I got Mother Earth by the waist
Drinkin’ her wine after I feed her grapes
Reap what you show, and I just sold a thousand acres
Plus I sewed up a vest, I’m a low-fashion designer maker
MWA, Michael Wayne Atha, born
1-9-7-9 from my celestial form
Peace, or no peace, have it your way
Just dropped a video 5 minutes ago, «Lightning» directed by Jorge
The grind don’t stop, neither does the roll and rock
A rollin’ stone like Keith Richards, I’ll be gray and still on top, yeah

(Money, money, money, money, money)
Money, money, money, money, money
Mile zero, zero, zero, bitch