Yella Beezy — Run To The Money
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Текст Yella Beezy — Run To The Money
Yeah…
(Shun On Da Beat)
Big chain, sippin’ fours
Cuban link, they’re drippin’ gold
Ballin’ all off a ho
I’m a dog, yeah, I know
Got it all out the bowl
One in the head, yeah, locked and loaded
Choppin’ raw on the stove
Your bitch gon’ call for that pole
Don’t make me walk down your bros
And lil’ bitch stalking, yeah, for sure
You might think I’m crazy now
Well business up, ain’t like before
I’m in love with my .40, I gun at a nigga throat
I’ma run to that money
Ayy, Cuban link with the piece and chain
Your nigga hatin’ then he’s a lame
Don’t fuck without her, she’s some game
Heard he throwin’ salt, then he need some game
No shit about leeching, man
Y’all keep talking, last nigga reaching, man
Used to ride like some priests, man
Now I’m hopping out of Wagens, G’s and things
Bitch, I’m a hustler, yeah, I got the funds
Fuck all that fussing, bitch, I got the gun
You pussy, be capping, be popping your gums
You want all the smoke, well I pop at your lungs
I’m too trigger happy, be popping for fun
Yeah, for the bands, I’m still popping them drums
Ran up that sack, went and got me a fund
So happy I got a bitch and got insurance
I might make your bitch cheese a little
Chopper start nuttin’ if I squeeze a little
Hollow tips, I Swiss cheese a nigga
Why you cuff the ho if she easy, nigga?
Cool out, be easy, nigga
‘Fore I make her run to C Breezy, nigga
I never fucked around with sleazy niggas
I just fucked the ho because she pleased a nigga
Big chain, sippin’ fours
Cuban link, they’re drippin’ gold
Ballin’ all off a ho
I’m a dog, yeah, I know
Got it all out the bowl
One in the head, yeah, locked and loaded
Choppin’ raw on the stove
Your bitch gon’ call for that pole
Don’t make me walk down your bros
And lil’ bitch stalking, yeah, for sure
You might think I’m crazy now
Well business up, ain’t like before
I’m in love with my .40, I gun at a nigga throat
I’ma run to that money
Hey, hold up, wait up a minute, cuz
They playing games but I been the plug
Deliver that sack, call me Jimmy Johns
Rocks chopped up big as Cinnabons
Call my lil’ niggas to get it done
‘Cause we got them birds like Timmy on
Ask around, bitch, I been a don
Fucked that ho and I ain’t strap a jimmy on, hey
Strapped up with the semi drum
Beat that pussy up until that kitty moan
Skrrt, ah skrrt, make that hemi yawn
That nigga crashed out, yeah, get him gone
Yella, you really wanna get him gone?
Nigga call shots, yeah, I get shit done
Chase that sack, money itch my palm
Might fuck your ho, lil’ bitch don’t run
Little bitch, you pretty, huh?
And met a boss nigga, oh really, huh?
With that lame nigga, oh really, ma?
Come to my pad, you can get it, ma
Hey, ’bout cheese, no Philly, ma
My city call me the Yella P Diddy, ma
Go’n, tell me what’s the damn dealy, ma
Not from Nebraska, but I’m illy, ma, hah
Big chain, sippin’ fours
Cuban link, they’re drippin’ gold
Ballin’ all off a ho
I’m a dog, yeah, I know
Got it all out the bowl
One in the head, yeah, locked and loaded
Choppin’ raw on the stove
Your bitch gon’ call for that pole
Don’t make me walk down your bros
And lil’ bitch stalking, yeah, for sure
You might think I’m crazy now
Well business up, ain’t like before
I’m in love with my .40, I gun at a nigga throat
I’ma run to that money
(Yeah…)
