[Intro]
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, yeah
Give them n***as the drum (Lock and load)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brr!)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Hahahaha!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters get it done ('Kay)

[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
Pyrex pot got the yola resi' (Whip up)
Shooter fifteen with the sweeper, hold it steady
James Patterson with the pen, I'm writin' thrillers
I write it for killers, they treat my words like Bible scriptures ('Kay)
Had the youngin fire the blicker
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 '90, n***a, you Bryson Tiller (Hah)
Homie, that's on dogs, I never liked you n***as
Hit you with some shit outta this automatic rifle, n***a (Brr!)
Praise me, I'm like Christ to n***as
Them lost n***as was blind, I dropped this shit and gave sight to n***as
Load the M-16 rockin' Supreme
Nowadays they don't make diss songs, they makin' memes
'Til I find them and run down on 'em and let it ring
Bitch, it ain't a rapper alive fuckin' 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 (Brr!)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Hah!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done ('Kay)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Huh?)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Hahahaha!)

[Verse 2: Conway the Machine]
Look, the shooter squeezing, he a heathen when he snort
M-16 ringing leave you bleeding on your porch (Brrt!)
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 blowin' money up in Neiman for the sport (blow it all)
Ran up in Fally's, bet I'm leavin' in the Porsche
Got pulled, bailed out, and I ain't even go to court (Hah!)
My homie say my flow raw like the ki's that he import, woah
You talkin' 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 lookin' like some axes hit you (Woo!)
Fuck you and them faggot n***as rappin' with you
Shout out my B-more homie that love to clap his whistle (What up, my n***a?)
Hit a pussy n***a' snapback with missiles (Boom!)
Empty the whole magazine (Huh?)
Give them the drum with love from the Machine
[Chorus: Conway the Machine & Prodigy]
Give them n***as the drum (Green light, uh)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brr, Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam, blam-blam!)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Hah!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done ('Kay, Yo, Conway, man)
(Yeah, holler at these n***as)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Huh? Matter of fact, let me get that, let me get that)
(Take this bitch-ass n***a' head off)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done (Hahahaha!)

[Verse 3: Prodigy]
Go lookin' for a n***a, I catch him at his stomp ground
Hop out with the blocka, brrap 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 to think clear
All these bullets set your beard on fire
When weird-ass n***as come fuckin' with live ones
When real-ass n***as come fuckin' with a no-fuck-givin'-ass n***a
Coroner takin' pictures of your body sliced open, you're 'posed for the autopsy
Oh, these n***as tellin'? Well, tell 'em 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, holler back soon
The paper boy, Empire State boy
Wrap whosoever in my way up, clowns with the make-up
You Ronald McDonald, face fucked, eyes 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'ma 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 (Brr!)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Hah!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters'll get it done ('Kay)
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]