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de Boldy James

My body senses tingling, you jingling baby
My diamonds glisten and twinkle, I'm blinging like crazy
Behind the tints of the Cullinan, ghetto Republican
Never earned an honest dollar, all I know is hustling
If I don't purge, I'ma starve- a nigga gotta eat
Can't find no work, then I'ma a rob -to get back on my feet
Shit is real as it can get put a switch on the stick
I run with silverbacks and chimps, gorillas in the mix
36,520, Yay', that's a kilogram
It's King James middle name, it ain't no middle men
No cappuccino, frappe, or iced latte
Nowadays, you either counting flower, 'cet, or Pavé
Spend the last 10 hours out of my day
Trapping up a bag with a bitch as bad as Sade
Speed beaming off the hinges, cleaning off the lenses
Of my frames, whole gang coming ice tray
Fresh as fuck for no reason on the right day
Quick to hit the road, turn around overnight stay
Made a couple triple plays in the tristate for that box shape
Them bitches going like hot cakes

Pills flying out the door
Zip lining out the Bo, sticky as some Scotch tape
12-5 for the O, steel slide in the Ghost
Bulletproof the drop Wraith
From Hell block to thug paradise
Rolling like a pair of dice, still in tip-top shape
I'm loaded on the G74, for that box shape
Them bitches going like hot cakes

Ready to mix and mingle
Smacked a half brick of top, like stepping on some shingles
Have my younging ring his bell, just for a couple jingles
Catch you when you least expect, and chip you like some Pringles
Always got that iron on me creased up without a wrinkle
Last nigga went against the grain, got Rip Van Winkled
41 to the drug zone, got Lurch popping needles
2-2-7 creature gang, that's third block to Finkle
Bully boy Medellin, Taiwan, the Argentine
Mafia what else? I'm the real Don Cartagena
Made a play on 6th and Hubble, double-parked the Beamer
Thousand pants, turn your block into a 40-minute cleaner

Pills flying out the door
Zip lining out the Bo, sticky as some Scotch tape
12-5 for the O, steel slide in the Ghost
Bulletproof the drop Wraith
From Hell block to thug paradise
Rolling like a pair of dice, still in tip-top shape
I'm loaded on the G74, for that box shape
Them bitches going like hot cakes

Pills flying out the door
Zip lining out the Bo, sticky as some Scotch tape
12-5 for the O, steel slide in the Ghost
Bulletproof the drop Wraith
From Hell block to thug paradise
Rolling like a pair of dice, still in tip-top shape
I'm loaded on the G74, for that box shape
Them bitches going like hot cakes

Más canciones de Boldy James