[Intro: Sample]
"You know how we can purchase a couple of TEC-9, semi-automatics, extended magazines?
Hold on, who? TEC-9's? The fuck for?
It's a family problem"

[Chorus: Conway the Machine]
Green light n***a, uh
Give them n***as the drum (Lock and load)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brrr!)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Hahaha)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters get it done (Cap)

[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
Pyrex pot, got the yola resi' (Whip up)
Shoot a fifteen with the sweeper hold it steady
James Patterson with the pen, I'm writing thrillers
I write it for killers, they treat my words like Bible scriptures (Cap)
Had the youngin fire the blicka
Tryna peel a cap for that contract he never seen that type of scrilla (Nah)
I ain't like these weirdo rappers, I'm a psycho n***a
Grimy like Tyson in ninety n***a, you Bryson Tiller (Haaa)
Homie, that's on dogs I never liked you n***as
Hit you with some shit outta this automatic rifle n***a (Brrr!)
Praise me, I'm like Christ to n***as
Them lost n***as was blind I dropped the shit and gave sight to n***as
Load the M-16 rocking Supreme
Nowadays they don't make diss songs, they making memes
Till I find them and run down on and 'em and let it ring
Bitch there ain't a rapper alive fucking with the Machine (Not at all)
[Chorus: Conway the Machine]
Give them n***as the drum (Green light 'em)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brrrrr)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Haaaa!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Cap)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Hah)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Hahaha!)

[Verse 2: Conway the Machine]
Look, the shooter squeezing, he a heathen when he snort
M-16 ringing leave you bleeding on your porch (Brrr)
Look, you keep running your dicksuckers that's the reason you a corpse, water whip it up I'm seasoned with the fork (Whip it up!)
I'm blowing money up in Neiman for the sport (blow it all!), ran up in Fally's bet I'm leaving in the Porsche
Got pulled, bailed out and I ain't even go to court (Haaa!)
My homie say my flow raw like the kis that he import, whoa
You talking like you that official when you clap ya pistol
I drop a bag on you and have my savage get you
Chopper chop your body up it's looking like some axes hit you (Woo!)
Fuck you and them faggot n***as rapping with you
Shout out my Bmore homie that love to clap his whistle (What up my n***a?)
Hit a pussy n***a, snap back with missiles (Boom!)
Empty the whole magazine (uh), give them the drum with love from The Machine

[Chorus: Conway the Machine]
Give them n***as the drum (Green light 'em)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brrr)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Haaa!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Cap)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Hah)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Hahaha!)
[Verse 3: Prodigy]
Go lookin' for a n***a, I catch him at his stomp ground
Hop out with the blocka, brrrap him and his boys down
High level violence, maximum overload
Pussy n***as cryin' like "P you took it overboard!"
My pops raised a gangsta, and you just a bird to me
I don't give a shit, who you shot who you murked homie
Name ringin' bells I give him his first L, and he was so sure that I was so soft
Shots flashed like the lightning, it's heavy metal gear
He let his fear overpower his mind and think clear
All these bullets set your beard on fire, when weird ass n***as come fucking with live ones
When real ass n***as come fucking with a no fuck giving ass n***a, coroner taking pictures of your body sliced open, you're posed for the autopsy
Oh these n***as tellin'? Well tell them send more cops
P, I'm at your neck
She said you tattooin' tears but ain't even kill a pussy yet
I fucked the truth out her, confessin' her sins
She tell me everything, how I know where your momma live, uh
Later for a bitch, I'm busy holla back soon
The paper boy, Empire State boy, rap Crusoe
Whoever in my way up, clowns with the make up
You Ronald McDonald face fuck I straight up
Paint more red on your forehead
I don't want your jewelry, n***a, I just want you dead
I don't want your money, you gon' pay me with your soul
And I'mma drink red rum from your skull, uh
[Chorus: Conway the Machine]
Give them n***as the drum (Green light 'em)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brrr)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Ha!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Cap)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Huh)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Hahahaha!)

[Production by Daringer]