[Verse 1: Meek Mill]
|
Bought a brand new loft, five thousand a month
|
Bitch my sour is special, hundred dollars a blunt
|
Only smoke if it's proper, in the words of Big Poppa
|
Rush his ass to the doctors, took the sacks and we shot you
|
Blocka-blocka-bla-blocka, warn his ass with them chopper
|
It'll be a massacre faggot, automatic kicking like soccer
|
Bottles popping it's popping, twenty bitches around us
|
I just slide her the numbers, so if she hit me I count her
|
I canary the pinky, hit her right like winky
|
Got the club looking cloudy, for the love of the stinky
|
In a 600 Benz, a couple bitches they friends
|
And we just getting started, these haters wishing we end
|
Brown nose on these hoes, niggas fishing again
|
Notice she swallow with those, drop like it on her chin
|
Niggas left me for dead, bitch I'm living again
|
Special chopper official, they see my vision again
|
|
[Chorus: Meek Mill & Young Chris]
|
Know it's a party, we see the sparkles, they coming
|
Standing on couches, bitches surround us, we blunting
|
We travel the globe, stop in your town, and run it
|
And you already know, cuff them hoes tonight, we born to run it
|
Because we motherfucking paid hoe (Paid hoe)
|
And all that cream, blow that paper like the haze hoe
|
Life's a beach, I'm in the sun with my shades
|
After the club we take the baddest bitch and lay low
|
Hey hoe (Hey hoe)
|
Hey hoe (Hey hoe)
|
After the club we get the baddest bitch and lay low
|
Hey hoe (Hey hoe)
|
Hey hoe (Hey hoe)
|
After the club we take the baddest bitch and lay low
|
|
[Verse 2: Young Chris]
|
Maserati dipping, wrist cost me a chicken
|
Neck cost a Bentley, think I'm finna have a ticket
|
Got a fetish for Ferraris, and fucking bad bitches
|
Smoke a nigga like I'm Marley all we know is lot of niggas
|
The summer's mine, Jordan number 9
|
I came in balling on these niggas like a young LeBron
|
In front them bitches, hit them on the lot
|
Came in with your main hoe, your?
|
It's Young Chris, eat a dick, we the shit
|
We really balling you just talking about a Stephen Smith
|
I let my money do the talking, I just plead the fifth
|
I'm on my Metro, just call me if you need a brick
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
[Verse 3: Freeway]
|
It's the makie with bacon, all these rappers be hating
|
Spit hella facts, hella facts, got me past immigrations
|
To my Canadian fans, they had me stuck at the border
|
See the brighling, big Bent', I think them bastards is rascist
|
Call me Hussain boy, we be off to the races
|
And no negating Smith & Wesson leave you crusain boy
|
We be up in the clubs, stunting with two chains boy
|
Got it popping, niggas mad, they bitches all up in our faces
|
Got them bottles Rosay, shots of Patron
|
All them chicks take shots to the dome
|
Hit right here trying to follow me home
|
Shots to his Impala, I'm gone
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
-----------------
|
Lay Low
|
Dj Drama |