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Fresh Home

2024

Fresh Home

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Lyrics
(X10)

I'm in a spaceship lookin' like I made it
But I'm on this bait strip with Tennessee and Katie
Whips fully loaded like this G-Lock, I told the driver ease up
Bro's hammer might go off over the speed bump
I hit the trap and I piss take, I get why them kids hate
I 'on't need rap to get my big face
I'm hoppin' out of cribs with bin bags like it's bin day
Rap tings a bit strange, I see a lot of actresses
I 'on't want no part, it's embarrassing, it locks, then I shatter it
I was pop down until I balanced it
Took a Rollie right off his wrist, we can tally it
Thots wanna saddle it, I just want three M's
Ask me how my week went, a whole load of crack deals
Bricks wrapped in nylon, too trappy, I got no chill
Make a nigga roadkill then go home and cuddle bae
Ain't goin' back to oatmeal, Wyatt had to take the chase
Forty's on the curb, tap the brakes, hope the tires grip
Cheese get greased, we ain't throwin' nothin' from the whip
They're tryna link my line to my phone like I'm new to this
Panda's ain't qualified, it's armed squad that blocked me in
Bro compromised the spot, I just want that yay' back
Staff lookin' at me mad, I stepped in and paid cash
Smell it like a Cali pack, Rollie gold, trackie black
Shoulda dragged him out, but I drenched him there where he sat
Could never be a mini me, I done laps for my team
Plain Jane on my left, right touchin' the glee
Could never do me like-, say I'm some mini me
Turn a Q to a key, all these bands from a fiend
Like nans, got a tin full of sweets
Thirty eight, nine mils, this stolen Jeep ain't cheap
Can't afford how he speaks, could put you on work for me
Risk my life for this P, pushin' white, pebble B
Trap boy doin' laps in between
I put crack in them flats, I send my bitch to the beach
Switchin' lanes, blowin' smoke, hittin' speed
In the trap like a rat and some cheese
Want bread? Send a man to the beach
She said I'm fucked, that's how I'm known where I be
.38 in my coat, shank tucked in my jeans
Can't slip, that's the life of a G
Bando baby, I came from the streets
And I'll die for the streets, yeah
They're not bad, they just act it
I really make packs flip
Your phones dead, it ain't match-fit
You was out lookin' for a bad B
I was in that green Honda just linkin' feisty
Re was a quarter key, two in a Q
I bought a month, I was sellin' weed
But I had the pot frothin', crack, cocaine profit
Really got paid from it
Sent him OT, only right I put a drink on him
Can't lie, I love shottin'
Put it in a pot, lock it
Soft, now it's so solid
Dry it out, then shot it
Shit, I sell it wet if the shots rottin'
Bro came short for the re so I paid for it
Dropped more weight on him

WRITERS

Marco Dwain Mckenzie, Frederick Arthur Poole, Louis Teja Sanghera

PUBLISHERS

Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

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