[Intro: Fred The Godson]
Frederico..
We walk around strappped in the night time
Me with your bitch and some white wine
Have your funeral on nightline
T.B.M. muhfucka

[Verse 1: Fred The Godson]
You know I'm the Boston, Massachusettes
My gun is given mass to shoot shit
Call the florists, I got the henchman
He'll clap for us like Zac Moris, I sense the tension
Shit, I'm the wrong one to prey on
Trade arms with a hoody and some skittles, make it Trayvon!
I'm bout mine wit' the K on
I get your body out line in some crayon
I'm from the Bronx, all we know is murder
N***as get murdered over nickel plated burners
There's a shooter born every day
This n***as I never heard of
I know you love you mother and you don't want me to hurt her
Be aware, hope these words make you wake up
You got squares in your circle, shape up
Silencers sound like (pop-pop-pop-pop..) spraying
Is all the same when is pop-pop-pop pop banging dawg..
[Hook: Fred The Godson] X 2
I'll put money on him, I get that boy Benjamins
The whole hood will want him
I turn him to George Zimmerman
I turn him to George Zimmerman
I turn him to George Zimmerman

[Verse 2: Fred The Godson]
Anybody my n***as fearing
Our Maserati's staring at any n***a thats staring
Shotty I get that errand
Screw on the silencer so I won't get a hearing
Everybody here in the X, won't hear em unless
I shot em in the the leg, You know I wouldn't do that
Even if I am Kyrie Irving, I wouldn't shoot for the Cavs
I'm from the Bronx, all we know is guns
Fuck the rest unless its rest in peace to Pun
Know they felt ya, I'm from the shelter, n***a I'm from the slums
Words make a sperm bank, so rappers here I come
I'm with my main man, Main Man
TBMTMC it's like Gangland (Gangland)
Mean it is what is is though
Ain't nothing for free but free Izzo

[Hook: Fred The Godson] X 2
[Verse 3: Main Man]
Ugh.. And ain't no one to tell in court
When the choppers on deck like a heliport
You ain't coming hard better stay home
Play roam, money on em like a pay phone
TMC we the fucking Cartel
Address to your crib and your hotel
Pounds down on your head cause the bread real
Run down on you like a fucking treadmill (get it..)
Ugh.. Send em through like a text message
Don't make me put a verse on your death record
Blocks on the plane, Texas (they flying..)
Doing numbers with the cane, Metrics
617, Old Deuce Deuce, Mac-Eleven, 9 millimeter, better call the reverend
I'm straight with the weight, in my state I'm connected
Anything pass the tri-state call Frederic
Get your bag up
Where your coin at?
My young boy keep the nickel where he groin at
She fuck with my persona yea coin that
Main man to main man you better learn that